“Only my ideas; neither apples nor plums. But I wish you would not wipe my face with your curls. I have got the clue to my fable; I will have Mrs. Adair, and I think your papa too.”
“I am sure you never shall: you never saw papa!”
“Indeed Miss Isabella, you are quite mistaken; I have seen him in shop windows, in magazines, and I am certain he is in a fine gilt frame in our study.”
“I wish people would not take such liberties. Papa has no business to be in windows, and other people’s frames.”
“Why, don’t you know that only great writers, and great fighters, and very good men, and very bad men, are noticed that way! If your papa was not good as well as great, he would not be fixed in our house, unless in the servant’s room, with Jemmy and Sandy, and the Storm, and Auld Robin Grey. Whatever you may think, it is a very great honour to be noticed by somebody that I could name.”
“I have not any thing to do with honour,” cried Isabella, “and talking of things I don’t know.”
“Hush! don’t speak! Can’t you see that I am busy. I wish I knew what people do when they have great books to write. My thoughts jumble so together, I can’t tell what to make of them; it is sad teasing work.”
“If Caroline was here, she could tell you what to write.”
“And do you think that I should ask a dunce? If I could but begin, I know I could go on.” Here Miss Bruce considered a little. “I must think of my thoughts: no, I must write them down.”
“O, Miss Bruce, Miss Bruce!” cried Isabella, eagerly, “do look through the window; there is a balloon flying, and a paper boy tied to it!”