Tickets! presents!—­said I.—­What tickets, what presents has he had the impertinence to be offering to that young lady?

Tickets to the Museum,—­said the landlady.  There is them that’s glad enough to go to the Museum, when tickets is given ’em; but some of ’em ha’n’t had a ticket sence Cenderilla was played,—­and now he must be offerin’ ’em to this ridiculous young paintress, or whatever she is, that’s come to make more mischief than her board’s worth.  But it a’n’t her fault,—­said the landlady, relenting;—­and that aunt of hers, or whatever she is, served him right enough.

Why, what did she do?

Do?  Why, she took it up in the tongs and dropped it out o’ winder.

Dropped? dropped what?—­I said.

Why, the soap,—­said the landlady.

It appeared that the Koh-i-noor, to ingratiate himself, had sent an elegant package of perfumed soap, directed to Miss Iris, as a delicate expression of a lively sentiment of admiration, and that, after having met with the unfortunate treatment referred to, it was picked up by Master Benjamin Franklin, who appropriated it, rejoicing, and indulged in most unheard-of and inordinate ablutions in consequence, so that his hands were a frequent subject of maternal congratulation, and he smelt like a civet-cat for weeks after his great acquisition.

After watching daily for a time, I think I can see clearly into the relation which is growing up between the little gentleman and the young lady.  She shows a tenderness to him that I can’t help being interested in.  If he was her crippled child, instead of being more than old enough to be her father, she could not treat him more kindly.  The landlady’s daughter said, the other day, she believed that girl was settin’ her cap for the Little Gentleman.

Some of them young folks is very artful,—­said her mother,—­and there is them that would merry Lazarus, if he’d only picked up crumbs enough.  I don’t think, though, this is one of that sort; she’s kinder childlike,—­said the landlady,—­and maybe never had any dolls to play with; for they say her folks was poor before Ma’am undertook to see to her teachin’ and board her and clothe her.

I could not help overhearing this conversation.  “Board her and clothe her!”—­speaking of such a young creature!  Oh, dear!—­Yes,—­she must be fed,—­just like Bridget, maid-of-all-work at this establishment.  Somebody must pay for it.  Somebody has a right to watch her and see how much it takes to “keep” her, and growl at her, if she has too good an appetite.  Somebody has a right to keep an eye on her and take care that she does not dress too prettily.  No mother to see her own youth over again in these fresh features and rising reliefs of half-sculptured womanhood, and, seeing its loveliness, forget her lessons of neutral-tinted propriety, and open the cases that hold her own ornaments to find for her a necklace or a bracelet or a pair of ear-rings,—­those golden lamps that light up the deep, shadowy dimples on the cheeks of young beauties,—­swinging in a semi-barbaric splendor that carries the wild fancy to Abyssinian queens and musky Odalisques!  I don’t believe any woman has utterly given up the great firm of Mundus & Co., so long as she wears ear-rings.