her mother, "speak gravely of grave things."

"Mamma thinks the Church Catechism came from Heaven, I believe," says
Beatrix, with a laugh, "and was brought down by a bishop from a mountain.
Oh, how I used to break my heart over it! Besides, I had a Popish
god-mother, mamma; why did you give me one?"

"I gave you the queen's name," says her mother, blushing. "And a very
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 honour," 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 overnight, 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 I 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