"Do you know her, dear Toby? I don't think you do. I don't think you ever look at pictures, intelligent as you are!
"It's the big portrait, by Romney, of a beautiful lady, sitting beautifully up, with her beautiful hands lying in her lap.
"Looking over her shoulder, out of lovely eyes, with a sweet smile on her lips, in the old brocade Mother keeps in the chest, and a pretty lace cap.
"I should very much like to be like her when I grow up to that age; Mother says she was twenty-six.
"And of course I know she would not have looked so nice in her picture if she'd squinted, and wrinkled her forehead, and had one shoulder out, and her tongue in her cheek, and a round back, and her chin poked, and her fingers all swollen with biting;—but, oh, Toby, you clever Pug! how am I to get rid of my tricks?
"That is, if I must give them up; but it seems so hard to get into disgrace.
"For doing what comes natural to one, with one's own eyes and legs, and fingers, and face."
TOBY.
"Remove your arms from my neck, Little Missis—I feel unusually apoplectic—and let me take two or three turns on the rug.
"Whilst I turn the matter over in my mind, for never was there so puzzled a pug!