every word a
snare, and every act a forgery; but never contradict. Agree with people,
and they make a couch for you in their hearts. You know the story of
Dante and the buffoon. Both were entertained at the court of the vain
pedant, who called himself Prince Scaliger,--the former poorly, the
latter sumptuously. 'How comes it,' said the buffoon to the poet, 'that
I am so rich and you so poor?' 'I shall be as rich as you,' was the
stinging and true reply, 'whenever I can find a patron as like myself as
Prince Scaliger is like you!'"

"Yet my birds," said Lucy, caressing the goldfinch, which nestled to
her bosom, "are not like me, and I love them. Nay, I often think I
could love those better who differ from me the most. I feel it so in
books,--when, for instance, I read a novel or a play; and you, uncle, I
like almost in proportion to my perceiving in myself nothing in common
with you."

"Yes," said Brandon, "you have in common with me a love for old stories
of Sir Hugo and Sir Rupert, and all the other 'Sirs' of our mouldered
and bygone race. So you shall sing me the ballad about Sir John de
Brandon, and the dragon he slew in the Holy Land. We will adjourn to the
drawing-room, not to disturb your father."

Lucy agreed, took her uncle's arm, repaired to the drawing-room, and
seating herself at the harpsichord, sang to an inspiriting yet somewhat
rude air the family ballad her uncle had demanded.

It would have been amusing to note in the rigid face of the hardened and
habitual man of peace and parchments a certain enthusiasm which ever
and anon crossed his cheek, as the verses of the ballad rested on some
allusion to the knightly House of Brandon and its old renown. It was an
early prejudice, breaking out despite of himself,--a flash of character,
stricken from the hard fossil in which it was imbedded. One would have
supposed that the silliest of all prides (for the pride of money, though
meaner, is less senseless), family pride, was the last weakness which
at that time the callous and astute lawyer would have confessed, even to
himself.

"Lucy," said Brandon, as the song ceased, and he gazed on his beautiful
niece with a certain pride in his aspect, "I long to witness your first
appearance in the world. This lodging, my dear, is not fit--But pardon
me! what I was about to say is this: your father and yourself are here
at my invitation, and in my house you must dwell; you are my guests, not
mine host and hostess. I