This sudden salutation was addressed to Miss Agatha Pennibacker who, fine and gauze-like as a dragonfly, floated into the room, and settled upon a sofa. “I have told you twenty times,” said the young lady with face severely set, “I will not be called Aggy. It’s hideous.” “Then why don’t you change it? I say, mother, when are you going to consign these girls to India? Market’s full here. Bless you, such a glut of wedding-rings, I’m told they hang mackerel on ’em.” And Basil laughed saucily at Agatha; and Agatha pouted contemptuously. “My dear Basil, I thought I heard your voice. Where have you been, you naughty child? I’m sure your poor sisters”—it was Monica Pennibacker who spoke as she entered—“your poor sisters might as well be without a brother.” “That’s their opinion Nic,” and the youth was about to chuck Monica’s chin, when Monica drew herself like a pouter pigeon above the familiarity. “When you can address your elder sister as you ought, Basil”— “Come, if you’re going to act domestic tragedy I shall leave the house, and not take a check to come back,” said Basil. “What’s the matter with you both? Why, you’re as stiff as if you slept in sheet iron and boarded on whalebone. What’s the matter? Just wish you’d some of my troubles. Only yesterday, I lost Scrub my terrier; a love of a thing that would kill rats as fast as he could see ’em. Turn out a hundred rats, and in a twinkling he’d make ’em feel as if the eyes of Europe were on ’em. And that dog’s dead. Yet look at me,” and Basil passed his fingers through his hair, and with much fortitude, wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “Scrub’s departed, yet I consent to breathe.” “Scrub! Bringing terriers before ladies,” said Monica; “do not be so vulgar.” “Indeed Basil,” chirrupped young Agatha, “you get so low, your sisters must disown you.” “Poor little kittens,” cried Basil, and he dropped astride a chair, and shook his head at the young ladies, and sighed.—“Well, ’pon my life, I do wish you were out of this world!” “Basil!” exclaimed the sisters, with a slight hysteric scream. “Basil!” said Mrs. Jericho in deep, reproving thunder. “You’re too good for this earth, you are, indeed, girls. Take it in the lump, and see what a lot of it’s beneath your notice. What a little of it’s really respectable. If it wasn’t unmanly, I could weep to think that my superfine sisters lived in the same wicked vulgar world that makes black-puddings and sells cat’s-meat.” “My dear Basil,” said Mrs. Jericho in a tone of tender remonstrance, “do not be so extravagant. And you hurt your sisters; you do, indeed. A man”—and Mrs. Jericho took breath for a great utterance—“a man never so beautifully shows his own strength, as when he respects our softness.” “No, indeed;” said the young ladies, speaking and shaking their heads in sympathy. “No!”