Horatio, who, with the laudable desire to add brilliancy, as was his wont on company days, to the dinner-table conversation, had been diligently storing his memory with the quaint sayings of Charles Lamb—for Charles Lamb is quite the _ton_ with the young Boston aristocracy, as Alexander Pope is with the old—laid the book, which he had brought down to study till the last minute, on the mantel behind a large vase, and with a glance into the mirror behind him to see that his neck-tie was all right, assumed a dignified and graceful attitude, with his left thumb inserted in his vest pocket, and his head turned solemnly toward the door. Mrs. Atkins, without moving, cast a glance along her flounces, and made sure in her mind that she was seated so as to be able to rise gracefully when the guest appeared. Her eldest daughter, with a little soft palpitation at heart, for the guest might be a bachelor or a widower, and she was ready to fall in love with any child of the sunny South, or son of the icy North, who had money and social position, also cast an eye at her ample skirts, and a mind’s eye at her capabilities for rising. The other daughter, Julia, started bolt upright in her chair, and with her hard, black eyes fixed on the door as though she would look through the panels, listened intently. Presently they heard Michael shuffling along through the hall, and then the hall door opening. “Is Mr. Atkins in?” demanded a resonant, loud voice, which was heard in the drawing-room. A moment’s silence, and Michael’s reply inaudible. “Will he be in soon?” Another silence, and Michael’s reply again inaudible. “Well, I’ll wait for him.” Michael was heard this time, explaining in a thin key that Mr. Atkins had company, and wouldn’t wish to see him. “Can’t help that,” was the bluff answer, followed by heavy feet stamping into the hall, and the dump of a heavy body flinging itself on one of the hall chairs. “It’s a matter of business, and he won’t thank you if I don’t see him. Mind that, my man.” “Humbug!” blurted out Horatio, taking up his book again. “It’s not him.” “O fiddlestick!” was the elegant exclamation of Julia, in a pet, “he’s not coming at all.” “Hush, my child,” said her mamma in a soft, drawling voice, “don’t be impatient. Show your breeding, my child, show your breeding.” “Well, be Jove, I’d like to know who _that_ is!” exclaimed Thomas, with some vehemence; “coming into the house like the sheriff, be Jove.” Michael meanwhile, having probably stood still for a minute, was now heard shutting the hall door, and presently came into the drawing-room, and closing the door behind him, gave an account of the dialogue. “Who is the man, Mike?” demanded Thomas in the imperative mood. “What does he look like?” Michael replied that he looked like a sailor, though he was not dressed in sailor’s clothes.