“Ah, very true!” cried the Squire; “that Pope sticks hard in my gizzard. I could excuse her being a foreigner, and not having, I suppose, a shilling in her pocket—bless her handsome face!—but to be worshipping images in her room instead of going to the parish church, that will never do. But you think you could talk her out of the Pope, and into the family pew?” “Why, I could have talked her father out of the Pope, only, when he had not a word to say for himself, he bolted out of the window. Youth is more ingenuous in confessing its errors.” “I own,” said the Squire, “that both Harry and I had a favourite notion of ours, till this Italian girl got into our heads. Do you know we both took a great fancy to Randal’s little sister—pretty, blushing, English-faced girl as ever you saw. And it went to Harry’s good heart to see her so neglected by that silly, fidgetty mother of hers, her hair hanging about her ears; and I thought it would be a fine way to bring Randal and Frank more together, and enable me to do something for Randal himself—a good boy, with Hazeldean blood in his veins. But Violante is so handsome, that I don’t wonder at the boy’s choice; and then it is our fault—we let them see so much of each other, as children. However, I should be very angry if Rickeybockey had been playing sly, and running away from the Casino in order to give Frank an opportunity to carry on a clandestine intercourse with his daughter.” “I don’t think that would be like Riccabocca; more like him to run away in order to deprive Frank of the best of all occasions to court Violante, if he so desired; for where could he see more of her than at the Casino?” SQUIRE.—“That’s well put. Considering he was only a foreign doctor, and, for aught we know, went about in a caravan, he is a gentlemanlike fellow, that Rickeybockey. I speak of people as I find them. But what is your notion about Frank? I see you don’t think he is in love with Violante, after all. Out with it, man; speak plain.” PARSON.—“Since you so urge me, I own I do not think him in love with her; neither does my Carry, who is uncommonly shrewd in such matters.” SQUIRE.—“Your Carry, indeed!—as if she were half as shrewd as my Harry. Carry—nonsense!” PARSON, (reddening.)—“I don’t want to make invidious remarks; but, Mr Hazeldean, when you sneer at my Carry, I should not be a man if I did not say that—” SQUIRE, (interrupting.)—“She was a good little woman enough; but to compare her to my Harry!” PARSON.—“I don’t compare her to your Harry; I don’t compare her to any woman in England, sir. But you are losing your temper, Mr Hazeldean!” SQUIRE.—“I!” PARSON.—“And people are staring at you, Mr Hazeldean. For decency’s sake, compose yourself, and change the subject. We are just at the Albany. I hope that we shall not find poor Captain Higginbotham as ill as he represents himself in his letter. Ah! is it possible? No, it cannot be. Look—look!”