“Miles, my dear boy, I do not half like this business; suppose you get out, and open the matter to the ladies.  There’s four of them, you see, and that’s three too many.  Go, now, Miles, that’s a good fellow, and I’ll do the same for you another time.  I can’t have four nieces here, you’ll own yourself.”

“And while I am telling your story to your niece, your own sister’s daughter, what will you be doing here, pray?”

“Doing?—­Why anything, my dear Miles, that can be useful—­I say, boy, do you think she looks anything like me?  When you get nearer, if you should think so, just hold up a hand as a signal, that I may not be taken by surprise.  Yes, yes; you go first, and I’ll follow; and as for ‘doing,’ why, you know, I can hold this bloody horse.”

I laughed, threw the reins to Marble, who seized them with both hands, as if the beast required holding, while I alighted, and walked to the cluster of girls, who awaited my movements in surprise and silence.  Since that day; I have seen more of the world than might have been expected in one of my early career; and often have I had occasion to remark the tendency there exists to extremes in most things; in manners as well as in every other matter connected with human feelings.  As we become sophisticated, acting takes the place of nature, and men and women often affect the greatest indifference in cases in which they feel the liveliest interest.  This is the source of the ultra sang froid of what is termed high breeding, which would have caused the four young women, who then stood in the door-yard of the respectable farm-house at which I had alighted, to assume an air as cold, and as marble-like, at the sudden appearance of Mrs. Wetmore’s chaise, containing two strange faces, as if they had been long expecting our arrival, and were a little displeased it had not occurred an hour sooner.  Such, however, was not my reception.  Though the four girls were all youthful, blooming, pretty, delicate in appearance, according to the fashion of American women, and tolerably well attired, they had none of the calm exterior of conventional manner.  One would speak quick to another; looks of surprise were often exchanged; there were not a few downright giggles, and then each put on as dignified an air to meet the stranger as, under the circumstances, she could assume.

“I presume Miss Kitty Huguenin is among you, young ladies,” I commenced, bowing as civilly as was necessary; “for this appears to be the house to which we were directed.”

A girl of about sixteen, of decidedly pleasing appearance, and one who bore a sufficient resemblance to old Mrs. Wetmore to be recognised, advanced a step out of the group, a little eagerly, and then as suddenly checked herself, with the timidity of her years and sex, as if afraid of going too far.

“I am Kitty,” she said, changing colour once or twice; now flushing and now growing pale—­“Is any thing the matter, sir—­has grandmother sent for me?”