"Has he, my dear?" said Mrs. Montgomery, with provoking indifference: for she happened to be deep in a discussion on the nature of the poor laws, with Mr. Jackson, the clergyman. Master Henry, meanwhile, was greedily devouring tart and cream, with his face close to his plate, and his eyes levelled at the dish, in great anxiety to be in time to claim the last portion which now remained on it; but, in his attempt to swallow what was before him, he missed his aim, and was a moment too late, though he thrust out his plate with both hands just as he saw a servant coming round; but the tart was dispatched to Lord L., to whom it had been offered, and who, being too much occupied to refuse it, had bowed. It lay before him a few moments, and went away untouched. Henry, vexed extremely, and desirous of revenge on Frances for the disappointment occasioned him by her lover, said, "If you are talking of the beggar brat, he is the image of a monkey! I was quite afraid he would bite me as I passed him in the hall." "I am sure, Henry," retorted Frances, "he seemed more afraid of you, than you could be of him: and, by the bye, you need not, I think, have looked so cross at the poor child." "Cross!" repeated Henry, "I did not look cross. What reason do you suppose I had to look cross? I never saw the brat before in my life." Henry's speech was accompanied by that hateful expression, which the eyes of an ill-disposed child assume, when it knows it is uttering falsehood! "Henry!" said Mrs. Montgomery, with some surprise; "you need not look angry, much less guilty. No one can suppose that you know any thing of the poor boy. But leave the room, sir: and remember you don't sit at table again, till you know better how to conduct yourself." Henry obeyed, but slowly and sulkily; trailing one foot after the other, and determining to have revenge on the cause of his disgrace. He offered no apology, and therefore was not taken into favour again for the evening, though poor Mrs. Montgomery, as she passed to her own apartment, looked into that where he lay, and said, with a sigh, "Good night, and God bless you, child!" To account, in some degree, for the unprepossessing manners of Master Henry, we shall introduce a few words respecting the young gentleman's birth, and hitherto unfortunately directed education. CHAPTER IV. "Lifting at The thought my timid eyes, I pass them o'er His brow; and, if I would, I dare not love him: Yet, dare I never disobey that eye, Flashing outward fires, while, within its depths, Where love should dwell, 'tis ever still, and cold, To look upon."