And you may wonder at first to hear such a moderate amount of roaring; Lions of the present day are not given to grandiloquence. If the truth must be told, the talk sounds somewhat professional, not unlike the regimental talk of soldier officers, and the ladies pertaining to the same. True, that a picturesque American, bolder than her compeers on this side the Atlantic, _poses_ in one corner, and by-and-by makes a tableau, lying down in wild devotion at the feet of two respectable and somewhat scared good people—literary ladies of a modest standing, who have done just work enough to make their names known, but are by no means prepared for such homage as this. And for the rest of the company, it must be said that they sit or stand, lean back or lean forward, as propriety or common custom enjoin;—that there is a great talk of babies in that other corner, where the mistress of the house is surrounded by a band of matron friends;—and that there is in reality very little out of the common in this company, if it were not for the said professional talk. The young mistress of the house! She talks pretty nearly as much now as other people talk—quite as much, indeed, when her heart is opened with that all-interesting subject, babies—or when her tongue has leisure to talk of the marvellous feats of certain babies of her own. July Home has been a married wife five years. There is nothing very costly or rare in this drawing-room; but it is well-sized and well-furnished, notwithstanding, and a pretty apartment. Lithgow himself, not a very stately host, attends to his guests with an unassuming kindliness which charms these somewhat sophisticated people, in spite of themselves; and Lithgow is full of the talk of the profession, and speaks great names with the confidence of friendship. In these five years, mother though she be, and mistress of a London household, all you can say of July is, that she has grown a pretty girl—a little taller, a little more mature in action—but a girl, just as she was when we saw her last. Being addressed, but of his own will scarcely speaking to any one, there is a remarkable-looking person among Mr Lithgow’s guests. Looking up to his great height, you can just see some threads of white among his hair, though his age does not justify this, for he is a young man still; and a settled cloud upon his brow gives darkness to his face. It is not grief—it is not care; a gloomy self-absorbed pride is much more like what it is. “That is Mrs Lithgow’s brother,” says another guest, in answer to the “who’s that” of an unaccustomed visitor. Mrs Lithgow’s brother! Is this all the distinction that remains to the lofty Randall Home?