“I’ve a whole bank of respect in me, ma’am”—and Basil spread his fingers over his breast—“but I don’t pay a penn’orth of it to forged drafts. Now, softness is one thing; and—my dear parent I am quite prepared to prove what I say—and gammon is another.” “If you allude to me, sir,”—said Monica, who had evidently made up her mind for an apothegm—“permit me once and for all to observe, that I don’t know what you mean.” “That’s exactly my feelings on the subject, Monica dear,” cried Agatha. “Now, children, I cannot endure this. It distresses me. These little quarrels lacerate me. You know, as I have often said, girls, I gave up everything for my children. Had I consulted my own feelings, I should have glided a solitary thing to—to your father. Therefore,”—here Mrs. Jericho drew forth her pocket-handkerchief; and both the girls, with a precision quite military, imitated the movement—“therefore, kiss one another and be friends.” “With all my heart, and all my mouth,” said Basil. “Come along, girls”—and he folded his arms—“come along; I won’t bite.” “What a creature you are!” cried Monica, wiping her eyes, as her mother moved her towards Basil. “I dare say,” said the young Agatha, lifting herself upon her toes, to Basil, “I dare say, now, you don’t kiss Bessy Carraways in that manner.” “Bessy Carraways,” said Basil, and the blood ran all over his face, his mother silently smiling at the emotion—“Bessy Carraways is a—a—” Basil stammered, then laughed—“a flower.” “No doubt, dear Basil,” said Monica. “So are all young ladies of Bessy’s age; all flowers.” “But I mean,” said Basil, “the natural thing. You see, my beloved sisters, there are two sorts of flowers. Now, Bessy isn’t too fine, or too good for this world. No; she’s a flesh and blood flower, growing upon the earth, and not thinking it too dirty for her: a flower that gives out the sweetness of her own natural self, and doesn’t think it too good for other people: and why, because she thinks no more about it, than a rose or a lily, or any other blossom that’s delicious and doesn’t know it.” “Upon my word, Basil,” cried Mrs. Jericho, with joyous emphasis, “you are quite a poet.” “Should be very sorry, ma’am, for the respectability of the family,” said Basil. “Oh, quite a bard,” exclaimed Monica, with a sarcasm so very fine, it was unfelt by its object. “Now, you have given us one sort of female flower, what—dear boy—what is the other?”