“Well, you must be a muff; but then, to be sure, you are a girl,” said Master Marsden, in a tone which was at once contemptuous and explanatory.
“She is not a great ill-mannered boy like you, Harry, at any rate,” observed Bessie, whose fault certainly was not reticence in expressing her sentiments.
“I don’t want you to talk to me, I don’t,” said the boy, turning upon her in a manner which spoke of former passages of arms between them.
“Well, it is not every one who gets more than he wants,” she replied; at which juncture Mr. Black called the young lady to order, declaring the way she talked to the boy too bad—“just like breaking a thingumderry upon a whatever’s its name.”
“If you mean a butterfly upon a wheel, I beg to remark that Harry is as unlike a butterfly as anything I can imagine,” answered Miss Bessie.
“We don’t expect little boys to be butterflies,” said that general peace-maker, Mrs. Black.
“No, it is great girls who are that,” struck in Mr. Black; and he laughed at his own wit so long and loudly, that Lally stood looking at him in astonishment.
“Well, little one, and what are you staring at?” inquired Mr. Black, at length noticing that Lally had opened not merely her eyes but also her mouth as wide as possible.
“Oo,” was the immediate reply.
“Oh! indeed; and what do you think of me now you have stared?” he asked.