The young man laughed heartily.
"Only French creams and candied fruits, child; you may not like them as well as Miss Zeba's striped lemon and horehound sticks, but I thought I'd give you a taste of Vanity Fair, at least."
"Is that its name?" asked Molly, who had secured a chocolate-cream, and was now burying her little white teeth in its soft lusciousness. "Oh, how sweet! and it melts while you're tasting. Is Vanity Fair all that way?"
"Pretty much," he said gravely, with an odd look at Sara.
"Well, it's nice," she concluded, after a second taste, "but there isn't much to it; you can't chomp it like horehound, or wintergreen candy. I like to chomp!"
"I presume so, and suck lobster-claws too, don't you? The fact is, I fear your tastes are too commonplace for you to thoroughly relish these French sweeties, and I'm glad of it! Now, don't eat too much to-night, for a very little of Vanity Fair goes a great way, you'll find. And now, good-night."
"Good-night, sir. I suppose some is for Morton?"
"I left that to your magnanimity."
"My who?" bewilderedly. "Do you mean Sara? Well, then, I may as well give him half this minute, 'cause she'll certainly make me," and the two finally disappeared, Molly laboriously counting over the recovered bonbons, to be sure the division was exact.
He turned back to Sara.