On reaching Mrs. Cockspur's villa, I was shown into the parlour, where I found her alone, in great good-humour. She had just received a severe lecture on marriage in old age, from Miss Volumnia, and was longing to see me.

“I had observed,” said she, “for some days, the mutinous looks of the young men, without being able to divine the cause; and Volumnia has told me, that they are all determined I shall not marry you.”

Before I could make any answer, the young lady came in, and with her Marianne, my eldest daughter. The plot of the comedy was thickening. To hasten on the upshot, I expressed my delight at seeing them so lovingly sister-like.

“We shall never be sisters,” exclaimed the two indignant misses, in one voice, and in a tone so piercing and so wild, that it threw the old lady and myself into an immoderate fit of laughter, which provoked Miss Volumnia to a great degree; for she immediately cried, with rather more pith than was genteel,—

“If my mother will marry, it shall be Mr. Herbert.”

“That, my dear child,” replied I coolly, winking to her mother, “does not depend upon you: ‘shall’ is a naughty word for a dutiful daughter to use towards her parent. But, if there is to be a wedding, your mother has a right to please herself. Come, come, Voly——”

“None of your familiarities, sir!” was the tart rejoinder. “Voly, indeed! Oh! has it come to that?” And she sat down in a torrent of tears.

“You are a foolish girl,” said Mrs. Cockspur, quite unable to preserve her gravity, yet, from the gentleness of her disposition, inclined not to afflict the poor maiden too severely—“you are a foolish girl; I’m sure Mr. Todd has always proved himself exceedingly kind to you;—had he been your own father, he could not have been more kind. I cannot think what makes you hate him so.”

“I don't hate him, if he would let you alone. Oh, he will be such an ugly step-father!”