There were few charms to destroy in Master Jones’s little dish-face, but his mother descended to the front parlor with a Gracchi perception of greatness in embryo, and walked up and down before the pier-glass until her father’s softened image followed her. Sundry shrill screams had found their way below, but as the injuries were entirely confined to poor Cilla’s face and hands, Mrs. Jones was satisfied. She surveyed him attentively, and the result was satisfactory; although Master Pushaw looked very much as if he were about to mount Miss Foote for a race, or a circus pony for a ride around the ring. His clothes were remarkable for their gay color, and he wore a fools-cap, whose long gold tassel swung to and fro as his motions grew animated. We have seen little creatures dressed like, and resembling him—but they were not children. Mrs. Jones was whirled off in triumph to Mrs. Hill’s. A pretty cottage, elegantly but simply furnished, stood unmoved as the splendid equipage dashed up to the front door. A servant opened it, at sound of the bell, and answered in plain English that his mistress was “at home.” Mrs. Jones descended the steps, and was ushered into the parlor. Still there was no unusual stir about the place, the pretty portraits kept in their frames on the wall, and the flowers remained unwithered at her approach. Mrs Jones’s astonishment redoubled, and when Mrs. Hill entered the room, her smiling, blooming countenance completed the disappointment of her guest. Nay, her quiet manner, and indifference to the mass of ribbons, flounces and embroidery that sat before her, gave Mrs. Jones nervous twitches at the mouth, and she at length asked for Mrs. Hill’s little boy, certain of seeing him, as Master Pushaw looked when he was not “dressed in the suit that came from the North.” But the nurse entered holding by the hand a beautiful boy, whose smooth, fresh complexion was ornamented with only the bloom “Nature’s cunning hand had laid on.” His costume was as unlike a fancy one as possible, and Mrs. Jones felt the thorn deeper in her side, as his bright dark eye rested boldly and scrutinizingly upon his visiter. “What a funny cap!” exclaimed he, as it swung to and fro when Pushaw turned his head. “And so it is funny, dear!” replied the nurse with true Irish naiveté. “Take the little boy with you, Charley, and get him a nice biscuit,” said Mrs. Hill, and she felt relieved as the children left the room. “A glass of wine will refresh you after the drive, Mrs. Jones,” continued she, hoping to direct her attention to a different channel; and pulling the bell, she ordered a tray of refreshment for her fashionable guest, not fearing to display the contents of her pantry to such practiced eyes.