drawing her hand from the clasp of the sentimental swain—but whether from coquetry, or propriety, or to preserve a new white kid glove, I will not undertake to determine—"I wasn't fishing for a compliment, I assure you."
"But it is no compliment, Polly—it is only the truth; and why shouldn't I be sorry to leave Buzzleton? There will be no nice walks like this, nor listening to your songs, nor talking of what's to happen."
"When?" interrupted Miss Padden.
"Why, when your father and mine think we are sensible. Now, don't pretend, Polly—for this is our last day together, and I want to hear you tell me again seriously and solemnly that you will keep constant for the two years, and marry me at the end."
"Shall we be sensible then, Tadgy?" enquired the lady, looking archly at the earnest face of her admirer.
"Father says so," was the reply, and in a tone that showed that that awful authority would have secured Mr Plantagenet's credence to a still more wonderful event.
"We ought to be much obliged to our fathers," said the young lady, "for guaranteeing such a reformation; but indeed, Tadgy, the chance of changing your mind is all on your side. You will see such designing people at Almack's and Vauxhall, and"
"Never trouble yourself about designing people, dear Polly; write to me every week, and as I am to come down every half year for three weeks, we shall do almost as well as if we met."
"And you will write faithfully, and think of me always?" said Mary, in a voice from which all liveliness had disappeared.
Mr Plantagenet Simpkinson again laid his hand upon the pretty little white kid glove, which this time was not withdrawn, and looking in the sweet blue eyes which I have already mentioned, said—
"Won't I?—that's all."
Miss Padden seemed quite as satisfied with this declaration as if it had been made in the words of fire upon the bended knee; and I do not feel myself at liberty to give any account of what was said on either side for at least ten minutes. At the end of that time an individual was seen walking towards them at the other extremity of the alley.
"Here's that horrid boy, Bob," said Mary, looking somewhat displeased.
"Infernal troublesome fool!" muttered Mr Plantagenet, "I should like to kick him into the river."
Chapter II.
The enquiring reader is anxious to be informed who and what was Bob. Bob was Mary's younger brother, and the most disagreeable detestable boy that ever was known in Buzzleton. Those who had studied Gulliver's Travels called him the Yahoo; those who trusted only to their own sense of fitness in the art of nomenclature called him the Beast. But this, being a generic name, was varied by the more acute disciples of Buffon, by referring him to any particular species which appeared appropriate to his peculiar qualities—the ass, the owl, the ostrich, the baboon, and a variety of other respectable citizens of the animal kingdom, were called upon to furnish a designation for Mr Robert Padden; and it was this amalgam of Mr Polito's menagerie that caused such a disagreeable sensation by his appearance in the elm walk, and excited a strong inclination in the usually pacific bosom of Plantagenet to drown him in the deep waters of the Buzzle. Bob, however, as if unconscious of any feelings of the kind, lounged up to where the youthful pair were seated, and, with a sulky look towards the young gentleman, enquired of his sister what she was always walking about with Tadgy Simpk's'n for?
Now, this is a very embarrassing sort of question, and accordingly Miss Mary, whether from not having studied the motives of her so doing, or from not wishing to reveal them, remained silent; whereupon Mr Simpkinson addressed the Yahoo, in a tone of voice by no means common with that good-natured individual, and said:
"Your sister has a right to please herself, I suppose."
"I s'pose she has—and she does it too," replied the agreeable youth; " I
