‘It is very, very sad,’ said Violet, mournfully.
‘You don’t think I have used her ill.’
‘Oh, no! You have borne a great deal. You could do no otherwise; but Arthur and John will be very much vexed.’
‘It is well that it is known to so few. Let it be understood by such as are aware of what has been, that I bear the onus of the rupture. No more need be known than that the break was on my side. We both were mistaken. She will not be blamed, and some day’—but he could not speak calmly—’ she will meet one who will feel for her as I do, and will work a cure of all these foibles. You will see the glorious creature she can be.’
‘The good will conquer at last,’ said Violet, through her tears.
‘I am convinced of it, but I fear it must be through much trial and sorrow. May it only not come through that man.’
‘No, no!’
‘Then good-bye.’
They shook hands with lingering regret, as if unwilling to resign their relationship. ‘You will explain this to Arthur, and give him my thanks for his friendliness; and you—accept my very best thanks for your great kindness and sympathy. If she had known you earlier—But good-bye. Only, if I might venture to say one thing more—you and Arthur will not give me up as a friend, will you?’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Violet, as well as her tears would permit, ‘I am sure we are but too glad—’
He pressed her hand gratefully, and was gone; while overwhelmed with the agitation she sank weeping on the sofa, only conscious that they all were in some sort guilty of a great injury to Mr. Fotheringham. In this state of distress she was found by Theodora, who came down so lofty and composed, that no one could have divined who was the party chiefly concerned in what had taken place.
Without comment, she treated Violet as for a nervous attack, taking great care of her till the sobs subsided, and there only remained a headache which kept her on the sofa for the rest of the day. Theodora read aloud, but which of them marked the words? Late in the afternoon she put down the book, and wrote a note, while Violet silently marvelled at the unconcern of her countenance.
‘There, I shall take it to the post. You may read it if you like, while I put on my bonnet.’ Violet read.
‘MY DEAR MAMMA,—Our engagement is at an end. Mr. Fotheringham tried to exercise a control over my actions to which I could not submit; and in especial was affronted by my going to Epsom with Arthur, instead of staying at home for the chance of seeing Lady Fotheringham. We came to high words, perceived the error of thinking our tempers accorded, and agreed to part. I have no cause of complaint, though I am at this moment much displeased with him; for when he had done with me he went and stormed to poor Violet till he brought on one of her hysterical affections. No one can have acted with kinder or more conscientious intentions than she has done throughout the affair. I do not mean to come away till after her confinement. London is wide enough for him and for me, and I would not leave her on any account. ‘Your affectionate daughter,
‘THEODORA A. MARTINDALE.’
Violet glowed with indignation at such mention of Percy. She never loved him! It is as John thought!
Theodora, returning, took the note, and began to put it into its envelope without a word.
‘Thank you,’ said Violet; ‘it is very kind in you to stay with me. It is a great comfort to Arthur.’
‘Is it no comfort to you?’ said Theodora. ‘If I am in your way, I will go.’
‘Oh! what should I do without you? It makes such a difference to me. I rely upon you to take care of Arthur, and Johnnie, and everything. Only don’t do what is not pleasant to you.’
‘I wish to live to be useful. I had rather be useful to you and Arthur than to any one. If you will keep me, I stay.’
All the rest of the day Violet could only feel that she could not be displeased with one so devoted to her. She wondered what Arthur would say. His comment was—
‘Well, I always expected it. It is a pity! She has thrown away her only chance of being a reasonable woman.’
‘You saw no cause for that horrid report?’
‘Not a bit. She is not so frantic as that comes to. She went on in her old way, only a little stronger than usual; but Percy was quite right not to stand it, and so I shall tell her.’
However, Theodora kept him from the subject by the force of her imperturbability, and he could only declaim against her to his wife.
‘I don’t believe she cared a farthing for him.’
‘I almost fear not. Yet how could she accept him?’
‘He was the biggest fish that had ever come to her bait. She could not have played her pranks on him without hooking him; but he has broken the line, and it serves her right. I only wish she took it to heart! It is a lucky escape for him. What will his lordship think of it?’
Lord Martindale wrote, evidently in much annoyance, to desire Arthur to send him a full history of the transaction, and after much grumbling, he was obeyed. What he said to his daughter did not transpire, but Violet gathered that the opinion at Martindale was, that she had not age or authority sufficient for the care of the young lady. In this she fully acquiesced, and, indeed, had some trouble in silencing repining speculations on what might have happened if she had been older, or in stronger health, or more judicious.
It was a universal failure, and she felt as if they were all to blame, while it terrified her to recollect John’s predictions as to the effect on Theodora’s disposition.
Another question was, how Mrs. Finch would feel on the matter. Theodora had written to her, and received one of her warm impulsive answers, as inconsistent as her whole nature; in one place in despair that her friend’s happiness had been sacrificed—in another, rejoicing in her freedom from such intolerable tyranny, and declaring that she was the noblest creature and the naughtiest, and that she must see her at once.
But she never came, and when Theodora called was not at home. Violet had Jane to herself for an unpleasing hour of condolence and congratulation, regrets and insinuations, ending with the by no means unwelcome news that Mr. Finch was tired of London, and that they were going into the country—and not Mark—going to set off in a week’s time. Two more calls failed, and Theodora only received a note, in which Mrs. Finch declared herself “abimee desolee” that her husband would drag her off into the country at such short notice, that her world of engagements had hindered her from meeting her best of friends. Then, with a sudden transition to slang, she promised excellent fun in riding, boating, &c., if Theodora would come to see her, and plenty of admirers ready to have their heads turned, ending rather piteously with ‘Who knows but I might take a turn for good? I know I wish I could, if it was not so horridly tiresome. You won’t forget your poor G. F.’
CHAPTER 18
Oh! woman is a tender tree,
The hand must gentle be that rears,
Through storm and sunshine, patiently,
That plant of grace, of smiles and tears.
—A. CLEVELAND COX
The height of the season was over, and London was beginning to thin. Lady Elizabeth Brandon had accepted invitations for a round of visits to her friends and relations, and Violet thought with regret how little she had seen of her and Emma.
In fact, that unfortunate party at Mrs. Bryanstone’s had been a sacrifice of the high esteem in which she had once been held. Emma, with the harshness of youthful judgments, could not overlook the folly that had hazarded so much for the sake of gaiety; and was the more pained because of the enthusiasm she had once felt for her, when she had believed her superior to all the world. She recollected her love-at-first-sight for the pretty bride, and well-nigh regarded the friendship as a romance of her girlhood. She did not blame poor Violet, for no more could have been expected than that so simple a girl would be spoiled by admiration, and by such a husband. She should always be interested in her, but there could be no sympathy for deeper visions and higher subjects in one devoted to the ordinary frivolities of life. Violet owned she could not understand her; what could be more true?
So Emma betook herself more and more to her other friend, lamented over present evils, made visionary amendments and erected dreamy worlds of perfection, till she condemned and scorned all that did not accord with them.
Lady Elizabeth would rather have seen her daughter intimate with Violet. Mistaken though that party was, it was hard measure, she thought, utterly to condemn a girl hardly eighteen. She could understand Violet—she could not understand Miss Marstone; and the ruling domineering nature that laid down the law frightened her. She found herself set aside for old-fashioned notions whenever she hinted at any want of judgment or of charity in the views of the friends; she could no longer feel the perfect consciousness of oneness of mind and sufficiency for each other’s comfort that had been such happiness between her and her daughter; and yet everything in Theresa Marstone was so excellent, her labours among the poor so devoted, and her religion so evidently heartfelt, that it was impossible to consider the friendship as otherwise than an honour to Emma.
Lady Elizabeth could only feel that she should be more at ease when she was not always in dread of interrupting a tete-a-tete, and when there was no longer any need to force Emma into society, and see her put on that resigned countenance which expressed that it was all filial duty to a mother who knew no better. Moreover, Lady Elizabeth hoped for a cessation of the schemes for the Priory, which were so extravagant as to make her dread Emma’s five-and-twentieth year.
Desirous as she was of leaving London, she would not consent to go to her brother in the end of June, until she had certified herself that Violet did not wish for her attendance.
Violet did think that it would have been a great comfort, but perceived that it would be at some inconvenience; and further divined that to be extremely useful and important was Theodora’s ruling desire. She was afraid of heart-burnings, and, as usual, yielded her own wishes, begged Lady Elizabeth not to disturb her plans, made many declarations of Theodora’s kindness and attention; and in return, poor thing! was judged by Emma to be in dread of lectures!
So the Brandons left London, and Violet sighed over the disappointment their stay had been, knew she had given up the chance of a renewal of intimacy, and thought Emma’s estrangement all her own fault.
Arthur, likewise, had a fit of restlessness. Some of his friends were intending to go grouse shooting to Scotland, and it was evident that he was desirous of joining them if Violet could only recover in time to spare him. Theodora also wished that he should go, for she had a strong suspicion that he was gliding fast into frequent intercourse with Mr. Gardner, and hoped that absence would put a stop to it.
Not a word, not a look, ever referred to Mr. Fotheringham. Violet thought it inexplicable, and could only suppose that Theodora had been under some delusion, and had never known the meaning of love, for there was nothing like sorrow or disappointment; she almost seemed to be glad of her release.
It was a trial when the Review was published, containing the critique upon modern poetry. For a whole day it was left unopened, because neither sister liked to touch it in the presence of the other; but when, in the morning, Violet took it to read, she found the leaves cut. Lord St. Erme had been treated with some censure, but with a fair amount of praise, and her own favourite pieces were selected for commendation; but there was sufficient satire and severity to cause the universal remark that it was hard on poor Lord St. Erme.
Often was the observation made, for the article excited much attention—it was so striking and able, keenly and drolly attacking absurdity and affectation, good-humoured and lively, and its praise so cordial and enthusiastic. Every visitor was sure to begin, ‘Have you read the paper on modern poetry?’ ‘Do you know who wrote it?’ or, ‘Is it true it is by Mr. Fotheringham?’
Violet, though much confused, could not help having a sort of satisfaction in seeing that neither could Theodora defend herself from blushes, nor so preserve her equanimity as always to know what she was saying, though she made heroic efforts, and those ignorant of the state of affairs might not, perhaps, detect her embarrassment. If there had been affection, surely this calmness must have given way!
One day Theodora was in a shop, and Violet waiting for her when Mr. Fotheringham passed, and instantly coming to the carriage door, shook hands warmly, seemed rejoiced at the meeting, spoke of his last letter from John in high approval of Mr. Fanshawe, and told her that in two days’ time he was going to take a walking tour in Ireland. At that instant the signal was made for taking up Miss Martindale, and with a hasty farewell he disappeared, as Violet thought, unseen. On coming home, Theodora went at once up-stairs; Violet some little time after chanced to go to her room to ask her a question on her way to dress, found her knock unanswered, but heard sounds which caused her gently to open the door.
Theodora was kneeling by the bed; her face buried in her hands, her neck crimson, sobbing and weeping in such violent grief as Violet had never witnessed. She stood terrified, unnoticed, hardly able to bear not to offer comfort; but she understood that nature too well not to be convinced that no offence would be so great as to break into her grief and to intrude upon what she chose to hide.
Violet, therefore, retreated, hoping that now there might be an opening for sympathy, some depression that would allow her to show her fellow-feeling; but no: when they met again Theodora was as cheerful and disengaged as ever, and she could almost have persuaded herself that these tears had been a dream.
Perhaps they so appeared to Theodora. She had been surprised into them, and was angry at having been overcome—she who cared so little; but she had woman’s feelings, though she had proved to be unfit for the dominion of man, and was henceforth ready to stand alone, and use her strength for the benefit of the weak. She would be the maiden aunt, the treasure of the family, and Arthur’s house should be the centre of her usefulness and attachments.
Therefore, so far from struggling against Violet, she delighted in the care of one so tender and caressing; looked on her as the charm and interest of her life, and rejoiced in being valuable at present, and likely to render most important services, attaining in fact the solid practical usefulness she had always coveted.
Everything that could please or amuse Violet she did, even to the length of drawing her out about Wrangerton, and suppressing a certain jealousy of Annette that was ready to spring up on discovering how strong was the affection bestowed on that sister. Violet was especially happy in being able to talk of home just now, when she was continually hearing of Albert’s marriage, and the arrangements consequent thereon, and would have felt it blank, indeed, to have no one but Sarah to share her interest.
Uncle Christopher went to the wedding, and was invited to dinner in Cadogan-place the Sunday after his return. Theodora condescended to be frankly entertained with his dry humorous account of the magnificent doings that had diverted him extremely, and caused Arthur and Violet to congratulate themselves that, in their case, Matilda had not been allowed her own way.
‘What a sensible, agreeable person your uncle is,’ said Theodora, as Violet lay down to rest on the sofa, after dinner, and to turn over and fondle one by one the little presents sent to her from Wrangerton.
Violet smiled thanks and pleasure in the praise, and Theodora set to work to gratify her, by admiring each gift as much as her conscience would let her, and was well pleased to find that she was not at all wanted to commend a wonderful embroidered sachet from the bride, nor a pair of gorgeous screens from Matilda; but that what was dwelt upon were some sketches in Wrangerton Park, and the most prized of all was a little pair of socks, in delicate fancy knitting, for Johnnie.
‘Dear, dear mamma! her own pretty rose-leaf pattern. Think of her knitting for my Johnnie! He will soon know grandmamma’s socks!’ and she put her fingers into one to judge of the size, and admire the stitch. Theodora could see her do such things now, and not think her foolish.
‘Theodora, dear,’ said she, after a long pause, ‘there is something I have been wanting to say to you for a long time. If I should be as ill as I was before, if I should not live, I should like one thing—’
Theodora took her hand between both hers, for she could not answer.
‘I should like to know that his grandmamma would see my Johnnie, if it was only for once. I know poor Arthur could not bear to hear me talk of this, and he is anxious enough already, but you would tell him. You will manage for mamma to see my boy, won’t you?’
‘I would take him to her at Wrangerton myself.’
‘I am quite content that you should chiefly take care of him, you know. I am glad you have been here so long that he has grown fond of you. It makes it much better to think of leaving him and his dear papa, to know they have you.’
‘But, Violet, you must not talk so!’ cried Theodora, in a half-choked voice.
‘No; I must not make myself cry,’ said Violet, quietly. ‘I will not go on, when I have asked you one thing more, and that is, to write to John, and tell him that I thank him for all he has done for me, and that this has been a very happy year. You and John will comfort—’
Violet checked herself, for the tears could only be restrained by silence, and she had made many resolutions against agitation.
‘All you wish!’ exclaimed Theodora; ‘but, indeed, you must not think there is any fear—’
‘I will not talk about it,’ said Violet, in her submissive voice.
‘No; nor think about it.’
‘I try not to do so more than I ought. I am glad you are here!’
It was dark enough for Theodora to allow her eyes to fill with soft tears, without a struggle to keep them back. The pleasure of being valued was very great, and the entire trust Violet reposed on her gave her as deep delight as she had ever experienced. What would it not be after having nursed her and been everything to Arthur! With Violet and Arthur depending on her, she could feel herself good for something, and filling a place in the world.
CHAPTER 19
The lowliest flowers the closest cling to earth,
And they first feel the sun; so violets blue,
So the soft star-like primrose drenched in dew,
The happiest of spring’s happy fragrant birth,
To gentlest touches, sweetest tones reply;
So humbleness, with her low-breathed voice,
Can steal o’er man’s proud heart, and win his choice.
‘She is ready to see you,’ said Arthur, meeting Theodora, as she came down at nine the next morning after church.
Violet’s face, white as a lily, was on the pillow, and a little dark downy head was beside her.
A sense of being too late, of neglect and disappointment, rushed over Theodora, and made her looks not what the mother expected, as with smiling eyes and feeble voice she said, ‘Your niece, dear Theodora.’
‘I did not know—’ were Theodora’s first words, and their dissatisfied sound made Arthur regret his abrupt introduction; though she recovered herself enough to say something of gladness, and of hopes that Violet was comfortable.
‘Yes, thank you, quite. I am so thankful! I am so glad of everything. Now I hope Arthur will not lose the 12th of August.’
‘Only don’t talk now, my sweet one. Come, Theodora,’ as if he only wanted to get her out of the room.
‘I have not looked at the baby. What a fine one!’ and she was going to take her.
‘Oh, please don’t!’ said Violet; ‘she will begin screaming again!’ Then, seeing the cloud return, ‘Presently, dear aunt, when she wakes. Is not she a beauty?’
Arthur, his hand on the door, hurried Theodora again.
‘I will come’ she said, impatiently, ‘I will come and sit with you after breakfast, Violet; I only wish I had been called.’
‘Indeed, I know how kind you would have been,’ said Violet, holding her hand, and watching to see whether the displeasure was removed: ‘but it seemed a pity to disturb you. Please don’t be vexed; I’ll give you plenty of trouble yet.’
She had, roused herself enough to alarm Arthur and the nurse.
‘This will never do,’ he said, laying his hand on his sister’s arm, and drawing her away almost by force: ‘You MUST keep quiet, Violet.’
‘I will, indeed, but please, Theodora—’
‘She pleases all you wish. Never mind,’ said Arthur, fairly putting her out, then stepping back, ‘Lie still, and mind your big baby; that is all you have to do.’
‘Only don’t let her be vexed.’
‘No such thing.’
But when out of Violet’s hearing he could not refrain from telling Theodora his displeasure. ‘I thought you had more sense, or I would never have let you in.’
‘I knew nothing of it.’
‘Your own fault for marching off at that time in the morning! I had been up to tell you, and could not think where you were.’
‘Why was I not allowed to be of use?’
‘A pretty specimen of your usefulness, vexing her with your black looks, till she was talking herself into a fever!’
‘Surely she is doing well?’
‘She was, unless you have undone everything with your humours.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
That was the last word. Theodora sat swelling under the sense of injustice and neglect, where she had intended to be so important; and Arthur was weary enough in mind and body to be more than usually sensible of her ungraciousness, and to miss the refreshment of cheerful sympathy. On going up after breakfast he found Violet weaker and more ill than he had previously thought her, and her solicitous inquiries about his sister made him the more attribute this to distress at those moody looks. He would not hear of again admitting Theodora, and in bitterness of spirit she wrote the letters, and tried to content Johnnie—all in vain; for strive to conceal it as she would, he always seemed to perceive her bad moods, and never would be happy with her when she was in one of them.
Every hour brought fresh mortification. She was jealous of Arthur’s being needful to the patient, and jealous of being left by him; angry at being treated as useless, and angry at the work she had to do; certain that her ill temper was Arthur’s fancy, yet certain he had caused it; anxious about Violet, yet disdaining his anxiety. She was much annoyed at his keeping aloof from her unpleasing looks, deserting the dinner-table after the first course, and when she had waited long for him, leaving her to discover that he had had a cup of tea in Violet’s room, and was gone down to smoke. The kindly affections that had always been the hope of her character were rejected and thwarted, and thus thrown back on herself, the wayward wilful spirit began to rise.
She paced the dull walk in the square gardens in the summer twilight, and thought of the life before her, uncherished at home, an intruder in the family where she had expected to earn fond gratitude, rejected by him who had loved her from childhood!
There was an alternative! One look of encouragement, and Lord St. Erme was at her disposal, ready to rejoice at acceptance, even if she should tell him that she had no heart to bestow. She would be no longer spurned and cast aside; she should be able to befriend Violet, she would live uncontrolled, adored; above all, she would teach Percy Fotheringham that she did not pine for him! She would belie those foolish tears that Violet had seen her shed!
As she opened the gate to leave the gardens, Lord St. Erme rode by with a young lady. Was he passing from her power? The spirit of rivalry prompted a gracious bow and smile. He checked his horse, looked delighted, and introduced ‘his sister.’
A fair, delicate, blushing girl of sixteen, a pretty likeness of himself, bent her head low, and Theodora felt that her blue eyes were intently perusing her under their downcast lids, while the brother’s tones almost trembled with the pleasure of her unwonted look of encouragement. He said that he was enjoying having his sister alone with him, at his aunt’s house in London, for a short time, and added something about calling. She gave one of her bewitching smiles, and they rode on.
There at least she was prized! How unlike this to the treatment she met with from her own family! If she could not love the Earl, she could do very well without that nonsense; and she should escape from her unloving home, begin a new life, reign queen o’er herself and him, idolized, uncontradicted, with ample opportunities of usefulness, triumphant over him who had disdained her.
So she mused while taking off her bonnet, till Sarah brought a message that Mrs. Martindale would be glad to see her. An hour ago and she would have rejoiced; now, Arthur’s household was becoming a secondary object, since they had rejected her, and driven her to seek fresh interests.
She was received with hands outstretched. ‘Dear Theodora, thank you. Will you stay and take care of baby and me while nurse goes to supper?’
‘If I may.’
‘Thank you. Nurse, pray give baby to Miss Martindale. You need not hurry; I shall be so comfortable.’
The sweet pale face and languid eyes were as a charm to expel all but kindly thoughts, as Theodora sat down with the living weight warm on her lap, and the gentle mother at intervals softly asking about her boy. ‘Poor little man, they would not let him come in: they kept away both the people I wanted.’
‘Arthur guards you most jealously.’
‘Yes, is not he a wonderful nurse? I had to exercise a little self-will in getting you here. How good we must be to make him forgive us!’
Next. ‘You cannot think what a difference it makes to have you here. I never need think about Arthur’s being made comfortable.’
Theodora’s sincerity longed for confession, and she refrained with difficulty. Those unconscious words set her vile temper before her in its true light. She had resented the being treated with consideration, and had been moody towards her brother, because he was under anxiety!
Self-convicted, she gave a deep sigh; but fearing again to distress Violet, began to admire the baby, who was in truth a remarkably large and handsome child, very dark and like the Martindales, and, both in size and serenity, such a contrast to her brother, that, proud as she was of her, her mamma only half liked praise of her that might be depreciation of him, and began to defend him from the charge of crying before he had had strength for it.
Her name, of course, was to be Helen, and to this Violet softly added, Theodora.
‘No, no; that will bring her no good. It is Aunt Nesbit’s name.’
‘It is one I love the sound of.’
‘You won’t another time.’
Violet vaguely perceived something amiss; but too weak to think about it, closed her eyes and fell into a doze.
Those few gentle sayings had brought back Theodora’s affection and sense of right. She longed to recall her glance. If it had taken effect she must persevere. She could not endure the humiliation of having a third time trifled with a lover; she would not feel herself sunk into a mere coquette. But what would Violet think!
Violet suddenly awoke with a terrified gaze. ‘Arthur! Arthur! O, where is he!’
‘Down-stairs, dearest; he will come.’ But to her extreme alarm, the words had no effect.
‘Arthur! O, when will he come? Why did he go away?’
Dismayed out of all presence of mind, Theodora rang with a violent peal, and flew down-stairs, the baby in her arms, rousing Arthur from a slumber in his chair by breathless tidings that Violet was worse—was delirious; Mr. Harding must be sent for—
When Arthur had hurried up-stairs, it proved to be only a frightened wakening, such as had often happened last year. She was perfectly conscious, but so much fluttered and agitated by Theodora’s own proceedings, that it was with great difficulty that Arthur could soothe and tranquillize her on her baby’s account. The nurse was very angry, and Theodora perceived her delinquency might have serious consequences, especially when she beheld Violet, still tremulous from the alarm, endeavouring to reassure them, to shield her from displeasure, and to take all the blame to herself for her foolish terror.
There was an end of Theodora’s grand designs of nursing! She could only enter the room at all by favour of the patient and by sufferance of the nurse; and she could attempt no remonstrance when ordered off by her brother, and even felt unworthy of Violet’s kiss.
That little scene of trivialities had been her first true humiliation. It had shown her the vanity of her boast of strength of mind; for when she thought of the morning’s unreasonable ill-humour, and unkindness to her brother and his wife at such a moment, and of the coquetry with Lord St. Erme, she was indeed lowered in her own eyes; and it was sorrow, not bitterness.
Her heart was very heavy, but less hard. Slowly had the power of Violet’s meekness and lowliness been stealing into her affections and undermining her pride. Perhaps the direct attacks of Percy, though strongly resisted, had in reality given a shock which prepared the way for the silent effect of sweetness and forbearance. At any rate, she was now sincerely sorry for the sin as well as the folly of the past day, and felt that it might bring a penalty in perplexities about Lord St. Erme, if he had really taken her smile for encouragement.
Many were her resolutions of amiability for to-morrow; but she was disappointed. Violet had passed a restless night, and could not be visited; and Arthur, after his experience of yesterday, was in no haste to subject himself to his sister’s humours. Her two years of caprice and neglect had told even on his easy temper.
It had long been a scheme of hers to surprise Violet on her recovery with a likeness of Johnnie, taken by a small, humble niece of Mrs. Harrison’s, lately started in life as an artist in crayons; and in the midst of yesterday’s sullenness she had taken measures which this morning brought the lady to Cadogan-place, at the hour when he was most likely to be in his best looks. Sarah, highly approving of anything that exalted Master John, sedulously traced the one-sided masculine division in his flaxen locks, and tied his best white frock with scarlet ribbons, in honour, as she said, of his being ‘a little granny-dear’; and Theodora carried him down, and heard him pronounced ‘a lovely interesting darling.’