her finger towards the door.

'Nor, thenk ye!' at last drawled the elder of the boys.

'Nor, thenk ye!' repeated Miss Howard, imitating the drawl. 'Why not?'
asked she sharply.

The boy stared stupidly.

'Why won't you come in?' asked she, again addressing him.

'Don't know!' replied the boy, staring vacantly at his younger brother, as
he rubbed a pearl off his nose on the back of his hand.

'Don't know!' ejaculated Miss Howard, stamping her little foot on the
Turkey carpet.

'Mar said we hadn't,' whined the younger boy, coming to the rescue of his
brother.

'Mar said we hadn't!' retorted the fair interrogator. 'Why not?'

'Don't know,' replied the elder.

'Don't know! you little stupid animal,' snapped Miss Howard, the cold air
increasing the warmth of her temper. 'I wonder what you _do_ know. Why did
your ma say you were not to come in?' continued she, addressing the younger
one.

'Because--because,' hesitated he, 'she said the house was full of
trumpets.'

'Trumpets, you little scamp!' exclaimed the lady, reddening up; 'I'll get a
whip and cut your jacket into ribbons on your back.' And thereupon she
banged down the window and closed the conversation.

CHAPTER LXIII

THE RISING GENERATION

The lull that prevailed in the breakfast-room on Miss Howard's return from
the window was speedily interrupted by fresh arrivals before the door. The
three Master Baskets in coats and lay-over collars, Master Shutter in a
jacket and trousers, the two Master Bulgeys in woollen overalls with very
large hunting whips, Master Brick in a velveteen shooting-jacket, and the
two Cheeks with their tweed trousers thrust into fiddle-case boots, on all
sorts of ponies and family horses, began pawing and disordering the gravel
in front of Nonsuch House.

George Cheek was the head boy at Mr. Latherington's classical and
commercial academy, at Flagellation Hall (late the Crown and Sceptre Hotel
and Posting House, on the Bankstone road), where, for forty pounds a year,
eighty young gentlemen were fitted for the pulpit, the senate, the bar, the
counting-house, or anything else their fond parents fancied them fit for.

George was a tall stripling, out at the elbows, in at the knees, with his
red knuckled hands thrust a long way through his tight coat. He was just of
that awkward age when boys fancy themselves men, and men are not prepared
to lower themselves to their level. Ladies get on better with them than
men: eithe