rely,
interpreting Puddock's wandering glance in that way. 'Your visit,
perhaps, is for him--you'll find him in his study, with the orderly.'

'My visit, Madam,' said Puddock, with a slight blush, 'was intended for
you, Madam--not for the general, whom I had the honour of seeing this
morning on parade.'

'Oh! for me? I thank you,' said Aunt Rebecca, with a rather dry
acknowledgment. And so she turned and chatted with Cluffe, who, not
being at liberty to talk upon his usual theme--his poor, unhappy friend,
Puddock, and his disgraces--was eloquent upon the monkey, and sweet upon
the lap-dogs, and laughed till he grew purple at the humours of the
parrot, and swore, as gentlemen then swore, 'twas a conjuror, a wonder,
and as good as a play. While this entertaining conversation was going
on, there came a horrid screech and a long succession of yelps from the
court-yard.

'Good gracious mercy,' cried Aunt Rebecca, sailing rapidly to the
window, ''tis Flora's voice. Sweet creature, have they killed you--my
angel; what is it?--where _are_ you, sweetheart?--where _can_ she be?
Oh, dear--oh, dear!'--and she looked this way and that in her
distraction.

But the squeak subsided, and Flora was not to be seen; and Aunt Becky's
presence of mind returned, and she said--

'Captain Cluffe, 'tis a great liberty; but you're humane--and, besides,
I know that _you_ would readily do me a kindness.' That emphasis was
shot at poor Puddock. 'And may I pray you to try on the steps if you can
see the dear animal, anywhere--you know Flora?'

'Know her?--oh dear, yes,' cried Cluffe with alacrity, who, however, did
_not_, but relied on her answering to her name, which he bawled lustily
from the door-steps and about the court-yard, with many terms of
endearment, intended for Aunt Becky's ear, in the drawing-room.

Little Puddock, who was hurt at that lady's continued severity, was
desirous of speaking; for he liked Aunt Becky, and his heart swelled
within him at her injustice; but though he hemmed once or twice, somehow
the exordium was not ready, and his feelings could not find a tongue.

Aunt Becky looked steadfastly from the window for a while, and then
sailed majestically toward the door, which the little ensign, with an
humble and somewhat frightened countenance, hastened to open.

'Pray, Sir, don't let me trouble you,' said Aunt Becky, in her high,
cold way.

'Madam, 'tis no trouble--it would be a happiness to me, Madam, to serve
yo