n which I am
petticoat-ridden is so evident that even this baby has found it out."

"Then why don't you stand up like a man?" says little Harry', who always
was ready to abet his brother.

Grandpapa looked queerly.

"Because I like sitting down best, my dear," he said. "I am an old
gentleman, and standing fatigues me."

On account of a certain apish drollery and humour which exhibited itself
in the lad, and a liking for some of the old man's pursuits, the first
of the twins was the grandfather's favourite and companion, and would
laugh and talk out all his infantine heart to the old gentleman, to whom
the younger had seldom a word to say. George was a demure studious boy,
and his senses seemed to brighten up in the library, where his brother
was so gloomy. He knew the books before he could well-nigh carry them,
and read in them long before he could understand them. Harry, on the
other hand, was all alive in the stables or in the wood, eager for all
parties of hunting and fishing, and promised to be a good sportsman from
a very early age. Their grandfather's ship was sailing for Europe once
when the boys were children, and they were asked, what present Captain
Franks should bring them back? George was divided between books and a
fiddle; Harry instantly declared for a little gun: and Madam Warrington
(as she then was called) was hurt that her elder boy should have low
tastes, and applauded the younger's choice as more worthy of his name
and lineage. "Books, papa, I can fancy to be a good choice," she replied
to her father, who tried to convince her that George had a right to his
opinion, "though I am sure you must have pretty nigh all the books in
the world already. But I never can desire--I may be wrong, but I never
can desire--that my son, and the grandson of the Marquis of Esmond,
should be a fiddler."

"Should be a fiddlestick, my dear," the old Colonel answered.

"Remember that Heaven's ways are not ours, and that each creature born
has a little kingdom of thought of his own, which it is a sin in us to
invade. Suppose George loves music? You can no more stop him than you
can order a rose not to smell sweet, or a bird not to sing."

"A bird! A bird sings from nature; George did not come into the world
with a fiddle in his hand," says Mrs. Warrington, with a toss of her
head. "I am sure I hated the harpsichord when a chit at Kensington
School, and only learned it to please my mamma. Say what you will,
dear sir,