“Do you consider me like papa?” she inquired with her most engaging smile, and speaking in the cornet, without which it was evident he could hear nothing. “Humph, not much; your sister there is more like him,” he answered, pointing with his ear-trumpet to Sophy. “There, Matilda, is ten thousand lost to you,” laughed the giddy girl. “What does she say?” asked the old gentleman, casting a shrewd look at her; “come here, merry one, and tell me yourself.” Sophy rose and courtesied before him, as she said to Grace, “Your turn next—so prepare. I wonder if the old Indian thinks he can turn us about as he would some China ornaments, while we stand bobbing like so many mandarins before him?” then turning to her uncle, she added, “I am delighted that you think I resemble my father, sir, although Matilda is counted the beauty, and I the fright.” “Oh, Sophy, how can you rattle so,” exclaimed Grace. “Now hush, Grace, until your time comes. You know I always speak out what I think.” “Especially when you know one party at least cannot hear,” said her sister, sarcastically. “You all seem to be chattering away among yourselves like so many magpies,” said the old gentleman. “But who is this young lady in the corner?” “Our cousin, Grace Addison,” screamed Sophy, at the top of her voice, “and the dearest, best, kindest cousin in the world. She makes all our dresses, copies Matilda’s music, waters her flowers, sketches in her album, and does a thousand things for which others get the credit; and more than all, she bears all my impertinences, and never gets out of patience. Now, Grace,” turning toward her, “you are properly introduced, come and speak for yourself. I think I have made _one party at least_ hear this time,” she added, to her sister; “and if old yellow-face has half as much generosity as he should have, there is a nice little plum in store for Simple Grace.” So saying, she ran out of the room. When the party met at dinner, there were several dishes cooked to suit Uncle Medway’s taste, among the rest a curry. Mrs. Medway and Matilda accepted some of the proffered viand, but when the old gentleman politely turned to Sophy, she exclaimed, “No, I thank you, none of your nauseous messes for me—the very smell of them takes away my appetite. Mamma, after this, I think I shall dine in my own room.” “What does the young lady say?” asked Uncle Medway, elevating his cornet, “that she has no appetite?” “I say I can’t bear curry,” screamed Sophy. “Oh, Sophy, how can you be so rude?” said her mother, in despair.