“Bird-starving!” repeated Henrietta.

“Yes; or keeping a few birds, according to the mother’s elegant diminutive,” said Beatrice, “serving as live scarecrows.”

“I should have thought a scarecrow would have answered the purpose,” said Henrietta.

“This is one that is full of gunpowder, and fires off every ten minutes,” said grandpapa; “but I told Uncle Roger we would have none of them here unless he was prepared to see one of his boys blown up at every third explosion.”

“Is Uncle Roger so very fond of machines?” said Henrietta.

“He goes about to cattle shows and agricultural meetings, and comes home with his pockets crammed with papers of new inventions, which I leave him to try as long as he does not empty my pockets too fast.”

“Don’t they succeed, then?” said Henrietta.

“Why—­ay—­I must confess we get decent crops enough.  And once we achieved a prize ox,—­such a disgusting overgrown beast, that I could not bear the sight of it; and told Uncle Roger I would have no more such waste of good victuals, puffing up the ox instead of the frog.”

Henrietta was not quite certain whether all this was meant in jest or earnest; and perhaps the truth was, that though grandpapa had little liking for new plans, he was too wise not to adopt those which possessed manifest advantage, and only indulged himself in a good deal of playful grumbling, which greatly teased Uncle Roger.

“There is Sutton Leigh,” said grandpapa, as they came in sight of a low white house among farm buildings.  “Well, Henrietta, are you prepared for an introduction to an aunt and half-a-dozen cousins, and Jessie Carey into the bargain?”

“Jessie Carey!” exclaimed Beatrice in a tone of dismay.

“Did you not know she was there?  Why they always send Carey over for her with the gig if there is but a tooth-ache the matter at Sutton Leigh.”

“Is she one of Aunt Roger’s nieces?” asked Henrietta.

“Yes,” said Beatrice.  “And—­O! grandpapa, don’t look at me in that way.  Where is the use of being your pet, if I may not tell my mind?”

“I won’t have Henrietta prejudiced,” said Mr. Langford.  “Don’t listen to her, my dear:  and I’ll tell you what Jessie Carey is.  She is an honest, good-natured girl as ever lived; always ready to help every one, never thinking of trouble, without an atom of selfishness.”

“Now for the but, grandpapa,” cried Beatrice.  “I allow all that, only grant me the but.”

“But Queen Bee, chancing to be a conceited little Londoner, looks down on us poor country folks as unfit for her most refined and intellectual society.”

“O grandpapa, that is not fair!  Indeed, you don’t really believe that.  O, say you don’t!” And Beatrice’s black eyes were full of tears.

“If I do not believe the whole, you believe the half, Miss Bee,” and he added, half whispering, “take care some of us do not believe the other half.  But don’t look dismal on the matter, only put it into one of your waxen cells, and don’t lose sight of it.  And if it is any comfort to you, I will allow that perhaps poor Jessie is not the most entertaining companion for you.  Her vanity maggots are not of the same sort as yours.”