Lucy--aged eleven--made a dash at the dressing-table, and seizing her cap by its frills, to the severe detriment of the lace, stuck it on her head in the first way that occurred to her, and was about to rush down-stairs without further ceremony. "That will not do, Lucy," said the elder girl. "You know what Henrietta will say. Go to the mirror and put your _cornette_ on properly." Muttering something which sounded like a statement that she did not care what Henrietta said, Lucy retraced her steps to the glass, pulled off the _cornette_, and stuck it on again, in a style very little better than before. This done, she joined her sister, who was half-way down the stairs. It was a fine old wooden staircase which the girls descended, "worn by the feet that now were silent,"[1] and at its base a long, narrow passage stretched right and left. Our young friends turned to the right, and after passing on for a few feet, entered a door on the left hand, which led to the family parlor. This room had already three occupants, two young ladies and a boy of fourteen. The two former were dressed like Lucy and her sister, except that the younger of them, who sat at a tapestry-frame in the corner of the room, wore broad pieces of brown velvet round her neck and wrists. The boy, who was equipped in out-door costume, part of which consisted of a pair of thick and pre-eminently splashed boots, sat on a low chair, staring into the fire, whistling, and playing with a riding-whip. "Lucy! your hair!" was the shocked exclamation with which the new-comers were received. "Oh, my hair is all right! I brushed it--this morning," said Lucy, the last words in a much lower tone than the rest; and then she asked of her whistling brother, "Have you heard anything, Charley?" Charley shook his head without ceasing to whistle. "Harry is not come yet?" "No," said Charley, in a very discontented tone; "and he has taken Bay Fairy, and I can't go out. 'Tis enough to provoke a saint." "That ben't you, Master Charley!" said a new and cheery voice, as an elderly woman appeared, carrying a little tea-tray, from behind the heavy, japanned screen which stood near the door. She was dressed in a black woollen gown, low in the neck, with a white muslin kerchief above, and a cap of more modest pretensions than those of the young ladies. "What does the impertinent old woman mean by calling me a sinner?" inquired Charley, addressing himself to his boots. "You ben't?" said old Cicely, setting down the tea-tray. "Well! stand up and let us look at you, do! You are the first ever I see that wasn't no sinner!" To which cutting observation Charley replied only by banging the door between himself and the unwelcome querist.