"It's well enough," said Miss Dorothy; "but I hate such romantic stuff. It could have been written with more propriety in prose." And she added, in a malicious aside, loud enough to reach the ears of the fond father:
"Now his vanity's pleased with this nonsense, there will be no end to his admiration of Juliet's verses."
"Dorothy, don't be envious of that of which you are incapable."
"Me envious! Of whom, pray? A whining, half-grown chit, who, if she have anything worthy of commendation about her, first received it from me. Envious, indeed! Captain Whitmore, I am astonished at your impudence!"
What answer the Captain would have given to this was very doubtful, for his brow clouded up with the disrespectful manner in which Aunt Dorothy spoke of his child, had not that child herself appeared, and all the sunshine of the father's heart burst forth at her presence.
"Dear papa, what are you about?" she cried, flinging her arms about the old veteran's neck, and trying, at the same moment, to twitch the paper out of his hand.
"Avast heavin'! my girl. The old commodore is not to be robbed so easily of his prize."
"Indeed, you must give the portfolio to me!" said Juliet, her eyes full of tears at finding her secret discovered.
"Indeed, indeed, I shall do no such thing, you saucy little minx! So, sit still whilst the father reads."
"But that—that is not worth reading."