pretty name it is," said somebody else.

Beatrix went on reading--"Spell my name with a Y--why, you wretch," says
she, turning round to Colonel Esmond, "you have been telling my story to
Mr. Steele--or stop--you have written the paper yourself to turn me into
ridicule. For shame, sir!"

Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather frightened, and told a truth, which was
nevertheless an entire falsehood. "Upon my honor," says he, "I have not
even read the Spectator of this morning." Nor had he, for that was not
the Spectator, but a sham newspaper put in its place.

She went on reading: her face rather flushed as she read. "No," she
says, "I think you couldn't have written it. I think it must have been
Mr. Steele when he was drunk--and afraid of his horrid vulgar wife.
Whenever I see an enormous compliment to a woman, and some outrageous
panegyric about female virtue, I always feel sure that the Captain and
his better half have fallen out over-night, and that he has been brought
home tipsy, or has been found out in--"

"Beatrix!" cries the Lady Castlewood.

"Well, mamma! Do not cry out before you are hurt. I am not going to say
anything wrong. I won't give you more annoyance than you can help, you
pretty kind mamma. Yes, and your little Trix is a naughty little Trix,
and she leaves undone those things which she ought to have done, and
does those things which she ought not to have done, and there's--well
now--I won't go on. Yes, I will, unless you kiss me." And with this the
young lady lays aside her paper, and runs up to her mother and performs
a variety of embraces with her ladyship, saying as plain as eyes could
speak to Mr. Esmond--"There, sir: would not YOU like to play the very
same pleasant game?"

"Indeed, madam, I would," says he.

"Would what?" asked Miss Beatrix.

"What you meant when you looked at me in that provoking way," answers
Esmond.

"What a confessor!" cries Beatrix, with a laugh.

"What is it Henry would like, my dear?" asks her mother, the kind soul,
who was always thinking what we would like, and how she could please us.

The girl runs up to her--"Oh, you silly kind mamma," she says, kissing
her again, "that's what Harry would like;" and she broke out into a
great joyful laugh; and Lady Castlewood blushed as bashful as a maid of
sixteen.

"Look at her, Harry," whispers Beatrix, running up, and speaking in her
sweet low tones. "Doesn't the blush become her? Isn't she pretty? She
looks younger than I am