XIV.
BERT.
In the breakfast-room of a house on Mt. Vernon Street sat two persons with whom it is necessary that we should become acquainted.
The first is a gentleman of perhaps forty-five, rather stout, and with a pleasant expression of countenance. He has finished his cup of coffee, and taken up the morning paper, which he scans carefully, more especially those parts relating to business.
At the opposite side of the table is a young lady of ten, with mirthful black eyes, and very red cheeks, which are well set off by her black hair. Altogether, she is very handsome, a fact of which she is not altogether unconscious. She is lively, fresh, original, and impulsive, not under very much restraint, but with an excellent disposition and kindly feelings, which do not allow her to go very far wrong. Yet it must be confessed that thus far her education has been sadly neglected, so that, as far as learning goes, she probably knows less than most girls two years younger.
The room, in which the father and daughter were seated, is tastefully furnished with that regard to comfort which is found in our American houses.
The two whom we have thus introduced are Benjamin Bowman, a wealthy merchant, and his daughter Bertha, though, in that shortening of names which is apt to take place in a family, hers has been shortened to Bert, which she appears to prefer to the longer and more strictly feminine name.
"Papa," she said, pushing away her plate, "you ain't good company at all."
"Thank you for the compliment, Bert," he said.
"But you're not, though. There you are wearing out your eyes over that stupid paper, and leaving me to talk to myself or Topsy. Here, Topsy, isn't it so?"