“Who was it taught you to dance, Cousin Beatrix?” says the Colonel.

She laughed out the air of a minuet, and swept a low curtsy, coming up to the recover with the prettiest little foot in the world pointed out.  Her mother came in as she was in this attitude; my lady had been in her closet, having taken poor Frank’s conversion in a very serious way; the madcap girl ran up to her mother, put her arms round her waist, kissed her, tried to make her dance, and said:  “Don’t be silly, you kind little mamma, and cry about Frank turning Papist.  What a figure he must be, with a white sheet and a candle, walking in a procession barefoot!” And she kicked off her little slippers (the wonderfullest little shoes with wonderful tall red heels:  Esmond pounced upon one as it fell close beside him), and she put on the drollest little moue, and marched up and down the room holding Esmond’s cane by way of taper.  Serious as her mood was, Lady Castlewood could not refrain from laughing; and as for Esmond he looked on with that delight with which the sight of this fair creature always inspired him:  never had he seen any woman so arch, so brilliant, and so beautiful.

Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her slipper.  The Colonel knelt down:  “If you will be Pope I will turn Papist,” says he; and her Holiness gave him gracious leave to kiss the little stockinged foot before he put the slipper on.

Mamma’s feet began to pat on the floor during this operation, and Beatrix, whose bright eyes nothing escaped, saw that little mark of impatience.  She ran up and embraced her mother, with her usual cry of, “Oh, you silly little mamma:  your feet are quite as pretty as mine,” says she:  “they are, cousin, though she hides ’em; but the shoemaker will tell you that he makes for both off the same last.”

“You are taller than I am, dearest,” says her mother, blushing over her whole sweet face—­“and—­and it is your hand, my dear, and not your foot he wants you to give him;” and she said it with a hysteric laugh, that had more of tears than laughter in it; laying her head on her daughter’s fair shoulder, and hiding it there.  They made a very pretty picture together, and looked like a pair of sisters—­the sweet simple matron seeming younger than her years, and her daughter, if not older, yet somehow, from a commanding manner and grace which she possessed above most women, her mother’s superior and protectress.

“But oh!” cries my mistress, recovering herself after this scene, and returning to her usual sad tone, “’tis a shame that we should laugh and be making merry on a day when we ought to be down on our knees and asking pardon.”

“Asking pardon for what?” says saucy Mrs. Beatrix—­“because Frank takes it into his head to fast on Fridays and worship images?  You know if you had been born a Papist, mother, a Papist you would have remained to the end of your days.  ’Tis the religion of the King and of some of the best quality.  For my part, I’m no enemy to it, and think Queen Bess was not a penny better than Queen Mary.”