ies Mrs. Esmond, bursting into tears, as at this juncture
her second son entered the room--in just such another suit, gold-corded
frock, braided waistcoat, silver-hilted sword, and solitaire, as that
which his elder brother wore. "Oh, Harry, Harry!" cries Madam Esmond,
and flies to her younger son.

"What is it, mother?" asks Harry, taking her in his arms. "What is the
matter, Colonel?"

"Upon my life, it would puzzle me to say," answered the Colonel, biting
his lips.

"A mere question, Hal, about pink ribbons, which I think vastly becoming
to our mother; as, no doubt, the Colonel does."

"Sir, will you please to speak for yourself?" cried the Colonel,
bustling up, and then sinking his voice again.

"He speaks too much for himself," wept the widow.

"I protest I don't any more know the source of these tears, than the
source of the Nile," said George, "and if the picture of my father were
to begin to cry, I should almost as much wonder at the paternal tears.
What have I uttered? An allusion to ribbons! Is there some poisoned pin
in them, which has been struck into my mother's heart by a guilty fiend
of a London mantua-maker? I professed to wish to be led in these lovely
reins all my life long," and he turned a pirouette on his scarlet heels.

"George Warrington! what devil's dance are you dancing now?" asked
Harry, who loved his mother, who loved Mr. Washington, but who, of all
creatures, loved and admired his brother George.

"My dear child, you do not understand dancing--you care not for the
politer arts--you can get no more music out of a spinet than by pulling
a dead hog by the ear. By nature you were made for a man--a man of
war--I do not mean a seventy-four, Colonel George, like that hulk which
brought the hulking Mr. Braddock into our river. His Excellency, too,
is a man of warlike turn, a follower of the sports of the field. I am a
milksop, as I have had the honour to say."

"You never showed it yet. You beat that great Maryland man was twice
your size," breaks out Harry.

"Under compulsion, Harry. 'Tis tuptu, my lad, or else 'tis tuptomai, as
thy breech well knew when we followed school. But I am of a quiet turn,
and would never lift my hand to pull a trigger, no, nor a nose, nor
anything but a rose," and here he took and handled one of Madam Esmond's
bright pink apron ribbons. "I hate sporting, which you and the Colonel
love, and I want to shoot nothing alive, not a turkey, nor a titmouse,
nor an ox