Oh! Eugenio!--thou whom I have apostrophised so often, and may now publish thee no myth, but rather my bosom friend--thou knowest I am writing true history; that Theresa _did_ so receive me; that I _did_ so undeceive her; that she _did_ drop her nonsense, and become on a sudden a charming English lady, whom it was a rapture to look at, and a joy to listen to. “Teazer,” said I---- Here I halted, coughed, and said, “Have you any objection to my calling you by this familiar name?” “Certainly not. My behaviour yesterday privileges you to find me an uglier title.” “It hits her character, doesn’t it?” exclaimed her father. “I gave it her, and she shall wear it as long as she deserves it.” “I was going to ask you,” said I, “to give me a proof of your pistolling powers.” “Make her give up that nonsense, Charlie,” remarked my uncle. “It is harmless enough,” I replied. “If the pistol don’t burst. That is all I care about. However, Teazer, since your fame is concerned--for I remember boasting of your dexterity to Charlie, at Grove End--go and get the pistol and show him what you can do.” She went into the house, and after a short absence, returned with a pistol case, and a small worsted ball, to which a piece of thread was attached. “Please go and hang this up for me on that rose tree there.” I took the ball and suspended it to a branch. She loaded her pistol very scientifically. “Your white hand,” said I, “entirely robs the pistol of its murderous significance.” “Go and stand near the tree,” she answered, “and then you’ll see the thread cut.” She had sneered at my courage yesterday, and the wound still bled. That she might have no further occasion to doubt my prodigious valour, I took up a position so close to the tree that, had she suffered me to remain there, it would have been ten to one but I had received the ball. She guessed my motive, and called out laughingly, “Not so near: I _might_ hit you!” I stalked a few paces away, with a great air of nonchalance, as if I should say, “Pshaw! I am quite used to be shot at.” She levelled her pistol. I looked at her. “Watch the thread,” she said. She was twenty paces off. I fixed my eyes on the string-bang! a sharp, clear report, and down dropped the ball. “Wonderful!” I exclaimed. She came to the tree, re-affixed the ball, and, putting the pistol in my hand, asked me to shoot. “I’ll try,” said I; “but you must keep behind me. Anybody within a hundred yards either side that tree would run the fearfullest risk. Winkle was a neater shot than I.” I measured twenty paces, faced the tree, levelled the pistol, pulled the trigger, and by heaven! _the ball fell!_ Teazer stared: my uncle clapped his hands. “You are a soldier’s son,” said he, “and ought to be able to shoot well. After that, Teazer, boast no more.”