“Her parents ought to be choked for giving her such a name.” “They are already defunct, and, I believe, in no way responsible for the obnoxious appellation.” “How so?” “Her father died before she was born, and her mother at her birth; so the poor little waif fell to the tender mercies of a maiden great-aunt on her father’s side, who immediately had her christened for herself, and proceeded forthwith to bring her up, after her own ideas, to inherit her million of money.” “But the other one called her Brownie?” “Yes; no one could ‘Mehetabel’ that sprite. Her nurse called her Brownie from the first, on account of her eyes, hair, and skin, for she was very dark as a child.” “Showed her good taste—the name just suits her,” muttered the first speaker, absently. “The little elf liked the pet name so well herself that she would never allow any one to call her anything else. I believe since she has grown up her schoolmates and a few of her gentlemen acquaintances, who do not feel familiar enough to address her so freely, shorten the obnoxious old maid title into ‘Meta.’” “You seem to know all about her.” “Yes, my sisters are intimate with, and very fond of her. As for myself, I always thought her a bewitching little fairy.” “She has the sweetest and brightest face in the world,” was the enthusiastic reply. “Ah, ha! Hard hit, aren’t you, Dredmond?” “So hard that I should like another of the same kind. Will you introduce me?” “Certainly, the first opportunity.” “You say the old aunt is rich?” “Immensely, and very aristocratic, too.” “Aristocratic, is she? The little one herself seems to be simple enough; she put on no airs. How civilly she spoke to that countryman.” “Oh, yes; she treats the rich and the poor alike. She has been very kind to some poor working girls whom I know, and yet she has a thus-far-and-no-farther way with her, when the occasion requires, which even your high blood could not overcome.” “There’s fun in her, though; how her bright face dimpled and gleamed when that clown stood ballast for Miss Huntington. Douglas, I believe, was the name of the little one, was it not?” “Yes.” “It is a good one with us.” “A good one! I guess it is, my boy. Why, Miss Mehetabel, the elder, claims to be a direct descendant from the Scottish nobility.” “Aha! is that so?” “Yes, indeed; but I warn you if you go there not to bring up the subject of genealogy, for once started upon that topic, there is no whoa until she brings up with an ancient queen.” “Pshaw! you are talking gammon now,” returned the young man, impatiently. “Indeed, I am not. I have seen the genealogical tree, and I assure you she has as good blood flowing in her veins as you have, notwithstanding she has been an inhabitant of plebian America for nearly half a century.” “Well, well, Gordon, we won’t quarrel about their ancestry; there is beauty enough there, let alone blue blood.”