I caught some one taking a grape the other evening—­a sort of green grape.  Sylvia has been sending bouquets to the gosling who was her escort on the evening of her Commencement—­him of the duck trousers and webbed feet.  On one occasion I have observed her walking along the borders of my garden in his company and have overheard her telling him that he could come in and get flowers whenever he wished.  I wish I might catch him once.

To cap the climax, after twilight on the evening in question, I strolled out to my arbor for a quiet hour with thoughts of Georgiana.  Whom should I surprise in there but Sylvia and the gosling! deep in the shadow of the vines.  He had his arm around her and was kissing her.

“Upon my honor!” I said; and striding over to him I thrust my hand under his coattails, gripped him by the seat of his ducks, dragged him head downward to the front fence and dropped him out into the street.

“Let me catch you in here kissing anybody again!” I said.

He had bit me viciously on one of my calves—­which are sizable—­as I had dragged him along; so that, I had been forced to stoop down and twist him loose by screwing the end of his spongy nose.  I met him on the street early the next morning, and it wore the hue of a wild plum in its ripeness.  I tapped it.

“Only three persons know of your misbehavior last night,” I said.  “If you ever breathe it to a soul that you soiled that child by your touch, the next time I get hold of you it will not be your nose:  it will be your neck!”

My mortification at Sylvia’s laxness was so keen that I should have forborne returning to the arbor had I not felt assured that she must have escaped to the house through modesty and sheer shame.  But she had not budged.

“I blush for you, Sylvia!” I exclaimed.  “I know all about that fellow!  He shouldn’t kiss—­my old cat!”

“I don’t see what you have to do with it!” said Sylvia, placidly.  “And I have waited to tell you that I hope you will never interrupt me again when I am engaged in entertaining a young gentleman.”

“Sylvia, my dear child!” I said, gravely, sitting down beside her.  “How old are you?”

“I am of the proper age to manage my own affairs,” said Sylvia, “with the assistance of my immediate family.”

“Well, I don’t think you are,” I replied.  “And since your brother is at West Point, there is one thing that I am going to take the liberty of telling you, which the other members of your family may not fully understand.  If you were younger, Sylvia, you might do a good deal of this and not be hurt by it; or you might not be hurt by it if you were a good deal older; but at your age it is terrible; in time it will affect your character.”

“How old must I be?” said Sylvia, wickedly.

“Well, in your case,” I replied, warmly, a little nettled by her tone, “you’d better abstain altogether.”