"Eh! little Daisy!" he said, in his warm husky voice, "and how are you, little Daisy, eh?"
He stretched out an arm—long, for so short a man—and attempted to seize on me for the kind purpose of bestowing a kiss; but I eluded his grasp, and took refuge behind Miss O'Reilly's chair, whence I looked at him rather ungraciously. Mr. Trim took this as an excellent joke, threw himself back in his chair, shut his little eyes, opened his mouth wider, and gave utterance to a boisterous "Ha! ha!" that ended all at once in a strange sort of squeak. Miss O'Reilly frowned; she never heard that laugh with patience.
"Daisy," she said, "go and shake hands with Mr. Smalley, an old friend of
Cornelius."
I was shy, but that name had a spell; I obeyed it at once. Morton Smalley was a pale, slender, and good-looking young clergyman, with a stoop, and a long neck; he seemed amiable, and might be said to look meekly into the world through a pair of gold spectacles and over an immaculate white neckcloth. He sat on the edge of his chair, nervously holding his hat; yet when I went up to him, he held out his hand with a smile so kind, and looked at me so benignantly through his glasses, that my shyness vanished at once.
"That Smalley always was a lucky fellow with the ladies," ejaculated Mr.
Trim, once more peering round the room with his hands on his knees.
Mr. Smalley blushed rosy red at the imputation.
"A very wild fellow he used to be, I assure you, Ma'am,—ha! ha!"
"My dear Trim," nervously began Mr. Smalley.
"Now, don't Smalley," deprecatingly interrupted Leopold Trim,—"don't be severe; you always are so confoundedly severe."
"Not in an unchristian manner, I hope," observed Mr. Smalley, looking uncomfortable.