rom the table to the hearth. Opposite where he had placed
himself was seated Mr. Home, and at his elbow, the child. When I say
_child_ I use an inappropriate and undescriptive term--a term
suggesting any picture rather than that of the demure little person in
a mourning frock and white chemisette, that might just have fitted a
good-sized doll--perched now on a high chair beside a stand, whereon
was her toy work-box of white varnished wood, and holding in her hands
a shred of a handkerchief, which she was professing to hem, and at
which she bored perseveringly with a needle, that in her fingers seemed
almost a skewer, pricking herself ever and anon, marking the cambric
with a track of minute red dots; occasionally starting when the
perverse weapon--swerving from her control--inflicted a deeper stab
than usual; but still silent, diligent, absorbed, womanly.

Graham was at that time a handsome, faithless-looking youth of sixteen.
I say faithless-looking, not because he was really of a very perfidious
disposition, but because the epithet strikes me as proper to describe
the fair, Celtic (not Saxon) character of his good looks; his waved
light auburn hair, his supple symmetry, his smile frequent, and
destitute neither of fascination nor of subtlety (in no bad sense). A
spoiled, whimsical boy he was in those days.

"Mother," he said, after eyeing the little figure before him in silence
for some time, and when the temporary absence of Mr. Home from the room
relieved him from the half-laughing bashfulness, which was all he knew
of timidity---"Mother, I see a young lady in the present society to
whom I have not been introduced."

"Mr. Home's little girl, I suppose you mean," said his mother.

"Indeed, ma'am," replied her son, "I consider your expression of the
least ceremonious: Miss Home _I_ should certainly have said, in
venturing to speak of the gentlewoman to whom I allude."

"Now, Graham, I will not have that child teased. Don't flatter yourself
that I shall suffer you to make her your butt."

"Miss Home," pursued Graham, undeterred by his mother's remonstrance,
"might I have the honour to introduce myself, since no one else seems
willing to render you and me that service? Your slave, John Graham
Bretton."

She looked at him; he rose and bowed quite gravely. She deliberately
put down thimble, scissors, work; descended with precaution from her
perch, and curtsying with unspeakable seriousness, said, "How do you
do?"