“How beautiful! how beautiful thou seemest, My boy, my precious one, my rosy babe! Kind angels hover round thee, as thou dreamest: Soft lashes hide thy beauteous azure eye which gleamest.” “Gleamest? thine eye which gleamest? Is that grammar?” thought Rosa, who had puzzled her little brains for some time with this absurd question, when the baby woke. Then the cook came up to ask about dinner; then Mrs. Fundy slipped over from No. 27 (they are opposite neighbors, and made an acquaintance through Mrs. Fundy's macaw); and a thousand things happened. Finally, there was no rhyme to babe except Tippoo Saib (against whom Major Gashleigh, Rosa's grandfather, had distinguished himself), and so she gave up the little poem about her De Bracy. Nevertheless, when Fitzroy returned from chambers to take a walk with his wife in the Park, as he peeped through the rich tapestry hanging which divided the two drawing-rooms, he found his dear girl still seated at the desk, and writing, writing away with her ruby pen as fast as it could scribble. “What a genius that child has!” he said; “why, she is a second Mrs. Norton!” and advanced smiling to peep over her shoulder and see what pretty thing Rosa was composing. It was not poetry, though, that she was writing, and Fitz read as follows:-- “LILLIPUT STREET, Tuesday, 22nd May. “Mr. and Mr. Fitzroy Tymmyns request the pleasure of Sir Thomas and Lady Kicklebury's company at dinner on Wednesday, at 7 1/2 o'clock.” “My dear!” exclaimed the barrister, pulling a long face. “Law, Fitzroy!” cried the beloved of his bosom, “how you do startle one!” “Give a dinner-party with our means!” said he. “Ain't you making a fortune, you miser?” Rosa said. “Fifteen guineas a day is four thousand five hundred a year; I've calculated it.” And, so saying, she rose and taking hold of his whiskers (which are as fine as those of any man of his circuit,) she put her mouth close up against his and did something to his long face, which quite changed the expression of it; and which the little page heard outside the door. “Our dining-room won't hold ten,” he said. “We'll only ask twenty, my love. Ten are sure to refuse in this season, when everybody is giving parties. Look, here is the list.” “Earl and Countess of Bungay, and Lady Barbara Saint Mary's.” “You are dying to get a lord into the house,” Timmins said (HE had not altered his name in Fig-tree Court yet, and therefore I am not so affected as to call him TYMMYNS). “Law, my dear, they are our cousins, and must be asked,” Rosa said. “Let us put down my sister and Tom Crowder, then.” “Blanche Crowder is really so VERY fat, Fitzroy,” his wife said, “and our rooms are so VERY small.” Fitz laughed. “You little rogue,” he said, “Lady Bungay weighs two of Blanche, even when she's not in the f--”