“Yes! you would encourage her in every kind of deception, you would! She is quite artful enough,” answered Matilda. “If I were papa,
I would soon see who sends the letter. What can make Susy late, this morning? She is invariably so regular.”
“No, child!” said a white-headed old gentleman, Mr. Foxville, the happy father of Matilda, Augustus, and Susan, his stock of direct descendants, and all told, “I never meddle with other people’s business. Susy is a good girl, and she will let me have any news that may interest me.”
“You are quite right; but she has a duty to her mamma,” said Mrs. Foxville, with a grand matronly air. “Papa allows me to open all his letters, though he never opens mine: and that’s as it should be. If Susy does not come down soon, as I am privileged, I will open the letter. It is a genteel hand, I perceive.
“Well, well,” observed Mr. Foxville, “patience, patience! We can wait.”
“She is my child, Mr. Foxville,” replied the matron.
“Shall I fetch Susy down?” asked Matilda, with curiosity fermenting within her.
“Do, my dear,” said Mrs. Foxville, laboring under the same complaint, but affecting more indifference.
With much nimbleness the sprightly Matilda dashed out of the room, having first made an attempt to carry off the letter.
“Stop!” cried Augustus, putting his hand on it. “Suppose you bring Susy to the letter, and not the letter to Susy! Fair is fair,” he added, with something like distrust in the fair letter-carrier.