yngham by name; but he was the son of an old friend, and John did
what he could to make the boys companionable, while the girls, though
they laughed at young Conyngham, were on the whole more amused with his
compliments than their father liked. But it was not till one day, going
up into Parliament, and finding some verses pinned on a curtain, that he
began to feel what it was to have no lady to superintend his daughters.

"What are they?" Gladys said. "Why, papa, Cray sent them; they are
supposed to have been written by Conyngham."

"What does he know about Conyngham?"

"Oh, I told him when I last wrote."

"When you last wrote," repeated John, in a cogitative tone.

"Yes; I write about once a fortnight, of course, when Barbara writes to
Johnnie."

"Did Miss Crampton superintend the letters?" was John's next inquiry.

"Oh no, father, we always wrote them up here."

"I wonder whether Janie would have allowed this," thought John. "I
suppose as they are so young it cannot signify."

"Cray sent them because we told him how Conyngham walked after Gladys
wherever she went. That boy is such a goose, father; you never heard
such stuff as he talks when you are away."

John was silent.

"Johnnie and Cray are disgusted with his rubbish," continued Barbara,
"pretending to make love and all that."

"Yes," said John; "it is very ridiculous. Boys like Conyngham and
Crayshaw ought to know better." Nothing, he felt, could be so likely to
make the schoolroom distasteful to his daughters as this early
admiration. Still he was consoled by the view they took of it.

"Cray does know better, of course," said Gladys carelessly.

"Still, he was extremely angry with Conyngham, for being so fond of
Gladys," remarked Barbara; "because you know she is _his_ friend. He
would never hear about his puppy, that old Patience Smith takes care of
for sixpence a week, or his rabbits that we have here, or his hawk that
lives at Wigfield, unless Gladys wrote; Mr. Brandon never writes to
him."

"Now shall I put a stop to this, or shall I let it be?" thought John;
and he proceeded to read Crayshaw's effusion.

TO G.M. IN HER BRONZE BOOTS

As in the novel skippers say,
"Shiver my timbers!" and "Belay!"
While a few dukes so handy there
Respectfully make love or swear;

As in the poem some great ass
For ever pipes to his dear lass;
And as in life tea crowns the cup
And muffins sop much butter up;