The four children burst into the drawing-room like a pack of hounds, and the baby, a stout child of a year old toddling in, he fell down, and the others ran over him. Tom Pynsent caught up the sturdy boy.
"Don't give tongue, you young rascal, but fight 'em, Bill—here, double your fists at them all."
The child mechanically closed his little fists, and his father placed him before Miss Bab.
"Battle her well, Bill, rattle her."
The child, who had not yet cast his cap, dealt a blow at his sister, which Miss Bab returned by knocking him down. The child did not attempt to cry at the blow, but, rising from the floor, he again doubled his infantine fists for the battle. Tom Pynsent was delighted.
"Well done, Bill, well done, my sharp lad! Come, that's enough at a time! Live to fight another day, Bill!"
"Come to your granny, my sharpshooter," cried Mrs. Pynsent; "I have something in my pocket for stout-hearted men!"
Billy toddled to his grandmother, who drew a box of sugarplums from her capacious pocket, and rewarded his prowess by a shower of sweets. Tom and Moll were likewise engaged in a controversy, which threatened to end in an engagement. They were quarrelling over Christobelle's parasol, Moll demanding it to walk with, and be a lady, like aunt Bell, while Tom insisted upon shouldering it like a bayonet, as the Count de Nolis had taught him. The dispute ran very high.
"Tom, dear, don't let the children fight," said Anna Maria, as she examined the make and material of her sister's silk pelisse, "they have been fighting all day."