ouse,

"Master Philip to hunt, indeed! Foxes to hunt foxes!" And he gives vent
to a dry laugh over his joke, in which I cannot but join. "Horsemen
grows. Eh, Master Richard? There was Captain Jack, who jumped from the
cradle into the saddle, and I never once seen a horse get the better o'
him. And that's God's truth." And he smooths out Tanglefoot's mane,
adding reflectively, "And you be just like him. But there was scarce a
horse in the stables what wouldn't lay back his ears at Mr. Grafton, and
small blame to 'em, say I. He never dared go near 'em. Oh, Master
Philip comes by it honestly enough. She thinks old Harvey don't know a
thoroughbred when he sees one, sir. But Mrs. Grafton's no thoroughbred;
I tell 'ee that, though I'm saying nothing as to her points, mark ye.
I've seen her sort in the old country, and I've seen 'em here, and it's
the same the world over, in Injy and Chiny, too. Fine trappings don't
make the horse, and they don't take thoroughbreds from a grocer's cart.
A Philadelphy grocer," sniffs this old aristocrat. "I'd knowed her
father was a grocer had I seen her in Pall Mall with a Royal Highness, by
her gait, I may say. Thy mother was a thoroughbred, Master Richard, and
I'll tell 'ee another," he goes on with a chuckle, "Mistress Dorothy
Manners is such another; you don't mistake 'em with their high heads and
patreeshan ways, though her father be one of them accidents as will occur
in every stock. She's one to tame, sir, and I don't envy no young
gentleman the task. But this I knows," says Harvey, not heeding my red
cheeks, "that Master Philip, with all his satin small-clothes, will never
do it."

Indeed, it was no secret that my Aunt Caroline had been a Miss Flaven,
of Philadelphia, though she would have had the fashion of our province to
believe that she belonged to the Governor's set there; and she spoke in
terms of easy familiarity of the first families of her native city,
deceiving no one save herself, poor lady. How fondly do we believe, with
the ostrich, that our body is hidden when our head is tucked under our
wing! Not a visitor in Philadelphia but knew Terence Flaven, Mrs.
Grafton Carvel's father, who not many years since sold tea and spices and
soap and glazed teapots over his own counter, and still advertised his
cargoes in the public prints. He was a broad and charitable-minded man
enough, and unassuming, but gave way at last to the pressure brought upon
him by his wife and daughter, and