"How is little mamma?" cried the Baronet, with his old chuckle. "An age since we met, hey? How well you look!" The old lady gave her thin mittened hand to her son-in-law, and looked a grim and dubious sort of welcome upon him. "Yes, Jekyl, an age; and only that Beatrix is here, I suppose another age would have passed without my seeing you. And an old woman at my years has not many ages between her and the grave." The old lady spoke not playfully, but sternly, like one who had suffered long and horribly, and who associated her sufferings with her visitor; and in her oblique glance was something of deep-seated antipathy. "Egad! you're younger than I, though you count more years. You live by clock and rule, and you show it. You're as fresh as that bunch of flowers there; while I am literally knocking myself to pieces--and I know it--by late hours, and all sorts of nonsense. So you must not be coming the old woman over me, you know, unless you want to frighten me. And how is Beatrix? How do, Beatrix? All ready, I see. Good child." Beatrix at this moment was entering. She was tall and slightly formed, with large dark eyes, hair of soft shadowy black, and those tints of pure white and rich clear blush, scarlet lips, and pearly teeth, and long eyelashes, which are so beautiful in contrast and in harmony. She had the prettiest little white nose, and her face was formed in that decided oval which so heightens the charm of the features. She was not a tragic heroine. Her smile was girlish and natural--and the little ring of pearls between her lips laughed beautifully--and her dimples played on chin and cheek as she smiled. Her father kissed her, and looked at her with a look of gratification, as he might on a good picture that belonged to him; and turning her smiling face, with his finger and thumb upon her little dimpled chin, toward Lady Alice, he said-- "Pretty well, this girl, hey?" "I dare say, Jekyl, she'll do very well; she's not formed yet, you know,"--was stately Lady Alice's qualified assent. She was one of that school who are more afraid of spoiling people than desirous of pleasing them by admiration. "She promises to be like her darling mother; and that is a melancholy satisfaction to me, and, of course, to you. You'll have some tea, Jekyl?" The Baronet was standing, hat in hand, with his outside coat on, and his back to the fire, and a cashmere muffler loosely about his throat. "Well, as it is here, I don't mind." "May I run down, grandmamma, and say good-bye to Ellen and old Mrs. Mason?" "Surely--you mean, of course to the parlour? You may have them there." "And you must not be all night about it, Beatrix. We'll be going in a few minutes. D'ye mind?" "I'm quite ready, papa," said she; and as she glided from the room she stole a glance at her bright reflection in the mirror.