“I wish you were at leisure now, Martin,” cried Percival.
“You forget, aunt, that you promised to learn to load and fire a rifle yourself,” said Mary.
“No, I do not; and I intend to keep my word, as soon as there is time; but John is so very young.”
“Well, Mary, I suppose we must enlist too?” said Emma.
“Yes; we’ll be the female rifle brigade,” replied Mary, laughing.
“I really quite like the idea,” continued Emma; “I will put up with no impertinence, recollect, Alfred; excite my displeasure, and I shall take down my rifle.”
“I suspect you will do more execution with your eyes, Emma,” replied Alfred, laughing.
“Not upon a catamount, as Martin calls it. Pray, what is a catamount?”
“A painter, miss.”
“Oh! now I know; a catamount is a painter, a painter is a leopard or a panther.—As I live, uncle, here comes the old hunter, with John trotting at his heels. I thought he would come at last. The visit is to me, I’m sure, for when we first met he was dumb with astonishment.”