“So I always told you; but you wouldn’t mind me.  She’ll make old bones.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Why, look at her yourself, and say whether we should be justified in thinking otherwise.  Is she not the picture of health and animation?”

“Yes, Mayhew, but her mother”——­

“There, be quiet will you?  The song is over.”

Ellen returned to her father’s side, sat upon a stool before him, and placed her arms upon his knee.  The incumbent drew her head there, and touched her cheek in playfulness.

“Come, my friend,” exclaimed the physician, “that isn’t allowable by any means.  Recollect two young gentlemen are present, and we can’t be tantalized.”

The minister smiled, and Ellen looked at me.

“Do you remember, doctor,” enquired the latter, “this very day eleven years, when you came over on the grey pony, that walked into this room after you, and frightened us all so?”

“Yes, puss, I do very well; and don’t I recollect your tying my wig to the chair, and then calling me to the window, to see how I should look when I had left it behind me, you naughty little girl!”

“That was very wrong, sir; but you know you forgave me for it.”

“No, I didn’t.  Come here, though, and I will now.”

She left her stool, and ran laughing to him.  The doctor professed to whisper in her ear, but kissed her cheek.  He coughed and hemmed, and, with a serious air, asked me what I meant by grinning at him.

“Do you know, doctor,” continued Ellen, “that this is my first birth-day, since that one, which we have kept without an interruption.  Either papa or you have been always called away before half the evening was over.”

“Well, and very sorry you would be, I imagine, if both of us were called away now.  It would be very distressing to you; wouldn’t it?”

“It would hardly render her happy, Mayhew,” said Mr Fairman, “to be deprived of her father’s society on such an occasion.”

“No, indeed, papa,” said Ellen, earnestly; “and the good doctor does not think so either.”

“Doesn’t he, though, you wicked pussy?  You would be very wretched, then, if we were obliged to go?  No doubt of it, especially if we happened to leave that youngster there behind us.”

“Ellen shall read to us, Mayhew,” said the incumbent, turning from the subject.  “You will find Milton on my table, Caleb.”

As he spoke, Ellen imparted to her friend a look of tenderest remonstrance, and the doctor said no more.

The incumbent, himself a fine reader, had taken great pains to teach his child the necessary and simple, but much neglected art of reading well.  There was much grace and sweetness in her utterance, correct emphasis, and no effort.  An hour passed delightfully with the minister’s favourite and beloved author; now the maiden read, now he.  He listened with greater pleasure to her voice than to his own or any other, but he watched the smallest diminution of its power—­the faintest evidence of failing strength—­and released her instantly, most anxious for her health and safety, then and always.