of this fair
creature always inspired him: never had he seen any woman so arch, so
brilliant, and so beautiful.

Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her slipper. The
Colonel knelt down: "If you will be Pope I will turn Papist," says he;
and her Holiness gave him gracious leave to kiss the little stockinged
foot before he put the slipper on.

Mamma's feet began to pat on the floor during this operation, and
Beatrix, whose bright eyes nothing escaped, saw that little mark of
impatience. She ran up and embraced her mother, with her usual cry of,
"Oh, you silly little mamma: your feet are quite as pretty as mine,"
says she: "they are, cousin, though she hides 'em; but the shoemaker
will tell you that he makes for both off the same last."

"You are taller than I am, dearest," says her mother, blushing over her
whole sweet face--"and--and it is your hand, my dear, and not your foot
he wants you to give him;" and she said it with a hysteric laugh, that
had more of tears than laughter in it; laying her head on her daughter's
fair shoulder, and hiding it there. They made a very pretty picture
together, and looked like a pair of sisters--the sweet simple matron
seeming younger than her years, and her daughter, if not older, yet
somehow, from a commanding manner and grace which she possessed above
most women, her mother's superior and protectress.

"But oh!" cries my mistress, recovering herself after this scene, and
returning to her usual sad tone, "'tis a shame that we should laugh
and be making merry on a day when we ought to be down on our knees and
asking pardon."

"Asking pardon for what?" says saucy Mrs. Beatrix--"because Frank takes
it into his head to fast on Fridays and worship images? You know if you
had been born a Papist, mother, a Papist you would have remained to the
end of your days. 'Tis the religion of the King and of some of the best
quality. For my part, I'm no enemy to it, and think Queen Bess was not a
penny better than Queen Mary."

"Hush, Beatrix! Do not jest with sacred things, and remember of what
parentage you come," cries my lady. Beatrix was ordering her ribbons,
and adjusting her tucker, and performing a dozen provokingly pretty
ceremonies, before the glass. The girl was no hypocrite at least. She
never at that time could be brought to think but of the world and her
beauty; and seemed to have no more sense of devotion than some people
have of music, that cannot distinguish one