in his remarks,
she was greatly pleased by his politeness, and pronounced him a most
distinque man--reminding her, indeed, of General Hopkirk, who commanded
in Canada. And she bade Rosey sing for Mr. Bayham, who was in a
rapture at the young lady's performances, and said no wonder such an
accomplished daughter came from such a mother, though how such a
mother could have a daughter of such an age he, F. B., was at a loss
to understand. Oh, sir! Mrs. Mackenzie was charmed and overcome at this
novel compliment. Meanwhile the little artless Rosey warbled on her
pretty ditties.

"It is a wonder," growled out Mr. Warrington, "that that sweet girl can
belong to such a woman. I don't understand much about women, but that
one appears to me to be--hum!"

"What, George?" asked Warrington's friend.

"Well, an ogling, leering, scheming, artful old campaigner," grumbled
the misogynist. "As for the little girl, I should like to have her to
sing to me all night long. Depend upon it she would make a much better
wife for Clive than that fashionable cousin of his he is hankering
after. I heard him bellowing about her the other day in chambers, as I
was dressing. What the deuce does the boy want with a wife at all?"
And Rosey's song being by this time finished, Warrington went up with
a blushing face and absolutely paid a compliment to Miss Mackenzie--an
almost unheard-of effort on George's part.

"I wonder whether it is every young fellow's lot," quoth George, as we
trudged home together, "to pawn his heart away to some girl that's not
worth the winning? Psha! it's all mad rubbish this sentiment. The women
ought not to be allowed to interfere with us: married if a man must be,
a suitable wife should be portioned out to him, and there an end of it.
Why doesn't the young man marry this girl, and get back to his business
and paint his pictures? Because his father wishes it--and the old
Nabob yonder, who seems a kindly-disposed, easy-going, old heathen
philosopher. Here's a pretty little girl: money I suppose in
sufficiency--everything satisfactory, except, I grant you, the
campaigner. The lad might daub his canvases, christen a child a year,
and be as happy as any young donkey that browses on this common of
ours--but he must go and heehaw after a zebra forsooth! a lusus naturae
is she! I never spoke to a woman of fashion, thank my stars--I don't
know the nature of the beast; and since I went to our race-balls, as a
boy, scarcely ever s