means of establishing good humour.

While she was sipping her coffee, out of a cup not much larger than a
nut-shell, all at once she heard a noise of barking and running in the
kitchen, as if some person was hunting her little greyhound.

She immediately jumped up, and ran into the kitchen. "Who is teasing
my little dog?" she asked, in a voice of dove-like anger.

The servants all laughed, and the footman, trying to compose his
features, replied, "It was Feeske, who was leaping up on the
fireplace."

"Well, and must you strike the poor dog for that!--he feels it just as
much as you would."

"Nobody beat him, Miss; only he put his head into the milk-ewer, and
could not get it out again."

"Yes, because you are all so disorderly.--Come here, little Feeske!
You should not have left the milk-ewer on the fireplace--come here, my
poor little dog; did these bad people hurt you?"

She was obliged to break the ewer to free the little dog's head.

"Sure it's the pretty ewer that's to be pitied," said one of the
servants, laughing.

"Well, I would not let the dog suffer for the sake of a ewer;" and
then she returned to her father with a beaming countenance. "Have I
not scolded them all well!"

Towards the end of breakfast, the footman entered with the letters and
newspapers, which the messenger brought weekly from town.

Uncle Gabor opened the Jelenkor newspaper, and followed Espartero and
Zummalacarreguy with great attention, while Linka glanced over the
peaceful columns of the Regelo--for it was only in the evening that
she had time to read it through. As she opened the last page, her eyes
fell on a sonnet, entitled, "To Lina B----ssy." She started as if she
had looked into a book of incantations, and closed the paper so
suddenly, that the old gentleman, who was just standing before the
cannons of a naval engagement, cried out, "What's the matter, my
child?"

"Nothing at all, papa," replied Linka, changing colour, "only the
paper nearly fell out of my hand."

So far was true. Uncle Gabor hastened back to the engagement, lest
anything should have taken place in the mean time.

Lina folded the paper quite small, and thrust it into the pocket of
her apron; then, taking up her watering-pot, she glided noiselessly
out of the room, and ran into the garden. She was determined not to
read the paper. She would either burn it, or put it away where nobody
should find it. With this firm intention, she began to water her