se beside
him), and she put on the drollest little _moue_, and marched up and down
the room holding Esmond's cane by way of taper. Serious as her mood was,
Lady Castlewood could not refrain from laughing; and as for Esmond he
looked on with that delight with which the sight 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 d