“What a pretty girl he makes,” said Eliza, turning him round. “We call him Harriet, you see;—don’t the name come nicely?”
The child stood gravely regarding his mother in her new and strange attire, observing a profound silence, and occasionally drawing deep sighs, and peeping at her from under his dark curls.
“Does Harry know mamma?” said Eliza, stretching her hands toward him.
The child clung shyly to the woman.
“Come Eliza, why do you try to coax him, when you know that he has got to be kept away from you?”
“I know it’s foolish,” said Eliza; “yet, I can’t bear to have him turn away from me. But come,—where’s my cloak? Here,—how is it men put on cloaks, George?”
“You must wear it so,” said her husband, throwing it over his shoulders.
“So, then,” said Eliza, imitating the motion,—“and I must stamp, and take long steps, and try to look saucy.”
“Don’t exert yourself,” said George. “There is, now and then, a modest young man; and I think it would be easier for you to act that character.”
“And these gloves! mercy upon us!” said Eliza; “why, my hands are lost in them.”