“‘Tis Cecil, by the jingling steel,
‘Tis Cecil, by the pawing bay,
‘Tis Cecil, by the tall two-wheel,
‘Tis Cecil, by the fragrant spray.”
“O Cecil, how lovely! Oh, the maiden-hair. You’ve been making acquaintance with Essie and Lina?”
“I did not know you were out, Babie,” said Essie. “Was my aunt with you?”
“Yes. We just ran over to see Mrs. Lucas, and as we were coming home, a poor woman besought us to buy two toasting-forks and a mousetrap, by way of ornament to brandish in the streets. She looked so frightfully wretched, that mother let her follow, and is having it out with her at the door. So you are from Fordham, Cecil; I see and I smell. How are they?”
“Duke is rather brisk. I actually got him out shooting yesterday, but he didn’t half like it, and was thankful when I let him go home again. See, Sydney said I was to tell you that passion-flower came from the plant she brought from Algiers.”
“The beauty! It must go into Mrs. Evelyn’s Venice glass,” said Babie, bustling about to collect her vases.
Lina, with a cry of delight, clutched at a spray of butterfly-like mauve and white orchids, in spite of her sister’s gentle “No, no, Lina, you must not touch.”
Babie offered some China asters in its stead, Cecil muttered “Let her have it;” but Esther was firm in making her relinquish it, and when she began to cry, led her away with pretty tender gestures of mingled comfort and reproof.
“Poor little thing,” said Babie, “she is sadly fretful. Nobody but Essie can manage her.”
“I should think not!” said Cecil, looking after the vision, as if he did not know what he was saying. “You never told me you had any one like that in the family?”