e to her life-long
instincts, is inviting the clergyman's shabby, gawky man-of-all-work, at
whom the ladies'-maids are raising the nose of contempt. Mr. Musgrave is
soliciting a kitchen-wench.

"Are there as many here as you expected?"

"Quite, my lady."

Another pause.

"I hope," with bald affability, in desperation of a topic, "that you
will all enjoy yourselves!"

"Thank you, my lady!"

Praise God! here is the Brat at last! Owing, I suppose, to the
slenderness and fragile tenuity of his own charms, the Brat is a great
admirer of fine women, the bigger the better; quantity, not quality;
and, true to his colors, he now arrives with a neighboring cook, a lady
of sixteen stone, on his arm.

We take our places. While chassezing and poussetting, thank Heaven, a
very little talk goes a very long way. My mind begins to grow more easy.
I am even sensible of a little feeling of funny elation at the sound of
the fiddles gayly squeaking. I can look about me and laugh inwardly at
the distant sight of Tou Tou and the button-boy turning each other
nimbly round; of father, in the fourth figure, blandly backing between
Mrs. Mitchell and a cook-maid.

We have now reached the fifth. At the few balls I have hitherto
frequented it has been a harmless figure enough; hands all round, and a
repetition of _l'ete_. But _now_--oh, horror! what do I see? Everybody
far and near is standing in attitude to gallopade. The Brat has his
little arm round the cook's waist--at least not all the way round--it
would take a lengthier limb than his to effect _that_; but a bit of the
way, as far as it will go. An awful idea strikes me. Must Ashton and I
gallopade too? I glance nervously toward him. He is looking quite as
apprehensive at the thought that I shall expect him to gallopade with
me, as I am at the thought that he will expect me to gallopade with him.
I do not know how it is that we make our mutual alarm known to each
other, only I know that, while all the world is gallopading round us, we
gallopade not. Instead, we take hands, and jig distantly round each
other.

The improvised valse soon ends, and I look across at the Brat. Gallant
boy! the beads of perspiration stand on his young brow, but there is no
look of blenching! When the time comes he will be ready to do it again.

As I stand in silent amusement watching him, having, for the moment, no
dancing duties of my own, I hear a voice at my elbow, Bobby's, who,
having come in later