In vain Mrs. Kettering shut up her parasol, and shifted her seat; in vain she disposed her ample figure, first in one uncomfortable position, then in another; she could _not_ “trim the boat,” and the reason was simple enough. Mrs. Kettering’s weight was that of a lady who had all her life been “a fine woman,” and was now somewhat past maturity; whilst her daughter and only child, “Blanche,” the occupant of the same bench, had but just arrived at that period when the girl begins to lengthen out into the woman, and the slight, lanky figure, not without a grace peculiar to itself, is nevertheless as delicate as a gossamer, and as thin as its own gauzy French bonnet. Mother and daughter were but little alike, save in their sweet and rather languid tone of voice--no trifling charm in that sex which is somewhat prone, especially under excitement, to pitch its organ in too high a key. Mrs. Kettering was dark and brown of complexion, with sparkling black eyes, and a rich colour, much heightened by the heat. Not very tall in stature, but large and square of frame, well-filled out besides by a good appetite, a good digestion, and, though nervous and excitable, a good temper. Blanche, on the contrary, with her long violet eyes, her curving dark eyelashes, and golden-brown hair, was so slight of frame and delicate of tint as to warrant her mother’s constant alarm for her health; not that there was any real cause for anxiety, but mamma loved to fidget, if not about “dear Blanche,” about something belonging to her; and failing these, had a constant fund of worry in the exploits and escapades of graceless “Cousin Charlie.” “Now, Charlie, my own dear boy” (Mrs. K. was very fond of Charlie), “I know you must be over-heating yourself--nothing so bad for growing lads. Mr. Hairblower, _pray_ don’t let him row so hard.” “Gammon, aunt,” was Charlie’s irreverent reply. “Wait till we get her head round with the flood; we’ll make her speak to it, won’t we, Hairblower?” “Well, Master Charles,” said the jolly tar, “I think as you and me could pull her head under, pretty nigh,--howsoever, we be fairish off for time, and the day’s young yet.” “Blanche, Blanche!” suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Kettering, “look at the weed just beyond that buoy--the alga, what’s its name, we were reading about yesterday. Charlie, of course _you_ have forgotten. I shall soon be obliged to get a finishing governess for you, Blanche.” “Oh no, dearest mamma,” said the young girl, in her soft, sweet voice, which always drew Hairblower’s eyes, in speechless admiration, to her gentle countenance. “I could never learn with any one but you; and then she might be cross, mamma, and I should hate her so after you!” And Blanche took her mother’s plump, tightly-gloved hand between her own, and looked up in her face with such a fond, bewitching expression, that it was no wonder mamma doted on her, and Hairblower and “Cousin Charlie” too.