“What an expression,—'won't have it'!”
“Well, I know,” cried she, with impatience; and then laughingly said, “I 've forgot, in a hurry, old dear Lindley Murray.”
“I beg of you to give up that vile trash of doggerel rhyme. And now what was it you said to Mr. Heathcote?”
“I told him that I was an only child,—'a violet on a grassy bank, in sweetness all alone,' as the little book says.”
“And then he asked about your papa; if you remembered him?”
“No, mamma.”
“He made some mention, some allusion, to papa?”
“Only a little sly remark of how fond he must be of me, or I of him.”
“And what did you answer?”
“I only wiped my eyes, mamma; and then he seemed so sorry to have given me pain that he spoke of something else. Like Sir Guyon,—