As the major laid aside his presents, he kissed the scarf, and then—­I regret to say without saying his prayers—­the young man went to bed.

The scene must now be transferred to the room where the sisters—­in affection, if not in blood—­were about to seek their pillows also.  Maud, ever the quickest and most prompt in her movements, was already in her night-clothes; and, wrapping a shawl about herself, was seated waiting for Beulah to finish her nightly orisons.  It was not long before the latter rose from her knees, and then our heroine spoke.

“The major must have examined the basket by this time,” she cried, her cheek rivalling the tint of a riband it leaned against, on the back of the chair.  “I heard his heavy tramp—­tramp—­tramp—­as he went to his room—­how differently these men walk from us girls, Beulah!”

“They do, indeed; and Bob has got to be so large and heavy, now, that he quite frightens me, sometimes.  Do you not think he grows wonderfully like papa?”

“I do not see it.  He wears his own hair, and it’s a pity he should ever cut it off, it’s so handsome and curling.  Then he is taller, but lighter—­has more colour—­is so much younger—­and everyway so different, I wonder you think so.  I do not think him in the least like father.”

“Well, that is odd, Maud.  Both mother and myself were struck with the resemblance, this evening, and we were both delighted to see it.  Papa is quite handsome, and so I think is Bob.  Mother says he is not quite as handsome as father was, at his age, but so like him, it is surprising!”

“Men may be handsome and not alike.  Father is certainly one of the handsomest elderly men of my acquaintance—­and the major is so-so-ish—­ but, I wonder you can think a man of seven-and-twenty so very like one of sixty odd.  Bob tells me he can play the flute quite readily now, Beulah.”

“I dare say; he does everything he undertakes uncommonly well.  Mr. Woods said, a few days since, he had never met with a boy who was quicker at his mathematics.”

“Oh!  All Mr. Wood’s geese are swans.  I dare say there have been other boys who were quite as clever.  I do not believe in non-pareils, Beulah.”

“You surprise me, Maud—­you, whom I always supposed such a friend of Bob’s!  He thinks everything you do, too, so perfect!  Now, this very evening, he was looking at the sketch you have made of the Knoll, and he protested he did not know a regular artist in England, even, that would have done it better.”

Maud stole a glance at her sister, while the latter was speaking, from under her cap, and her cheeks now fairly put the riband to shame; but her smile was still saucy and wilful.

“Oh nonsense,” she said—­“Bob’s no judge of drawings—­He scarce knows a tree from a horse!”

“I’m surprised to hear you say so, Maud,” said the generous-minded and affectionate Beulah, who could see no imperfection in Bob; “and that of your brother.  When he taught you to draw, you thought him well skilled as an artist.”