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say you would think him hideous," with a conscious laugh. Miss Opie coughed suspiciously. "It is unfortunate," said she, "when you are in such a pleasant situation, that any disturbing element should enter. I hope, Bluebell, you will be very circumspect in your demeanour towards this gentleman." "What," said Bluebell, in demure imitation of her manner, "would you consider an appropriate attitude for me to assume towards him?" "These fine Captains are too fond of turning young girls' heads," said Miss Opie, shaking her own; "'leading captive silly women,' as we read. If he attempt any foolish, trifling conversation, you should check it with cold civility." Bluebell burst into an irreverent fit of laughter, and even Mrs. Leigh said,--"Oh, those are your English ideas, Aunt Jane; we are not so stiff in Canada." Mrs. Opie having been a governess for ten years in the mother country, was looked upon as a naturalized Briton. "I think the old country must be very dull," said Bluebell. "Miss Prosody is always pursing up her mouth and bridling if I laugh and talk with any of the officers; and one day I distinctly overheard her whisper to the Colonel,--'very forward,' and nod towards me." "It is, however, well to profit by such remarks," returned Miss Opie; "there is doubtless some truth in them, however unpalatable." "But," urged the girl, "Colonel Rolleston can't _bear_ one to be silent or dull; he always asks if one isn't well; and I shouldn't think you could call Captain Du Meresq a flirt. Why, he has hardly spoken ten words to me yet,"--but a sudden glow came to her cheeks as she remembered how many he had looked. "Well, well, I was only warning you. Fetch the backgammon board; your mother has won seven games and I nine since you went." Bluebell complied, and, settling the ladies on either side of a papier-mache table, opened the piano, and began dreamily playing through the music of the night before. Trove, finding the door ajar, had pushed in, and lay near the instrument, listening in that strange way some dogs do if the tones come from the heart, and not merely the fingers. Having got through the last evening's _repertoire,_ she sat musing on the music-stool, and then crooned rather low an old song of her mother's, beginning,-- "They tell me thou art the favoured guest In many a gay and brilliant throng; No wit like thine to wake the jest, No voice like thine to raise the song."
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