Mrs. Montague. (Lina speaks for her in a fine voice.) I wish you would lay down your paper a moment, Charles; I want to speak to you.
Mr. M. Well, my dear, I am listening.
Mrs. M. No, you are not; put down the paper! [As this couldn't very well be done by the gentleman himself, Maggie twitched it away for him, and threw it under the table.]
Mrs. M. Now, Charles, I must say I think it is high time Isabella was married. She is most six months old, I declare! and it strikes me we had better see if we can find her a husband.
Mr. M. What you say is very sensible, my dear; so I will call to-day on my friend Mr. Morris, and invite him to dinner. Perhaps they will fall in love with each other.
Mrs. M. Oh! but is he handsome, Mr. Montague?
Mr. M. Handsome! I should rather think so! Why, he is nearly two feet high, with curly black hair; a nose that can be seen at the side—which is more than yours can be, Mrs. Montague—and eyes which open and shut of themselves when he lies down or sits up. Then he is a Seventh Regimenter, too, and always wears his uniform; which makes him look very genteel.
Mrs. M. Oh, I am sure he must be lovely! Do bring him to dinner this very day.
Here Maggie made the dining-room door open, and in walked Miss Isabella. She wore a pink merino morning dress, open in front, to show her embroidered petticoat, a pair of bronze slippers with pink bows, and a net with steel beads in it. Maggie set her down hard in one of the chairs, and pushed her up to the table; while Minnie, who moved the nigger boy doll, who waited on table, picked him up by his woolly top-knot, from the floor, where he had tumbled, and made him hand the young lady a cup of tea. Then Maggie began: