Frances was the romp of the family, a large girl of sixteen, with heaps of brown curls around a piquante face.
"I wish I had a little rosewood writing-desk and a pearl pen-handle," came in a clear, insinuating voice very high up the scale. Anne sat in a low chair, with her chin in her hand, her elbow on her knee, and her gaze fixed intently on the cornice of the room. But perceiving no notice taken of her remark, she lowered her glance, and gave her father a look out of the corners of her eyes, which thereby got the appearance of being nearly all whites.
Anne was fourteen years of age, and had a quiet way of doing as she pleased and getting all she wanted without seeming to try. Frances called her pussy-cat.
"O papa!" broke in Georgiana, "can't I have a pair of skates and learn to skate?"
"I want a silver mug!" cried Jane, the youngest, striking in before Josephine.
Josephine sat in the shadow of her father's chair, and had two small wrinkles between her brows.
"Is there any thing else any one will have?" asked Mr. Willian with excessive politeness, after having caught breath. "Don't be bashful, I beg! It is a pity there are only seven of you, with your mother making eight. Possibly by putting a mortgage on the house, I may be able to gratify your wishes. Speak up—do!"
Ever so slight a cloud settled upon the gentleman's audience as he glanced over them, bowing suavely, and rubbing his hands with an appearance of great cordiality.
"Papa!" came in a little voice out of the shadow. Every one had forgotten Josephine.
A real smile melted the waxen mask of a smile on Mr. Willian's face.