Shortly after we had entered, Mrs. Brownstout met us with a greeting which amply made up in cordiality for whatever it might want in refinement, and from Maria and Lucinda we received kind nods of recognition, though too busy to do more. There they were in all their bravery, doing the honours of the tea-table, exhibiting the albums and the caricatures, and endeavouring to make every one at home and happy—cheerful within the limits of propriety and good sense, attentive to all, with kindness and the most obliging tact. “You’re right, Tom,” said I, “in your estimate of this family; the mother is, though a little blunt, a worthy woman, and the girls are dear, sweet creatures; I declare I’ve a good mind to marry them both.” “Both! Are you quite sure that either of them would have you?” “But Tom, by the way,” I continued, “to change the subject from my loves to yours, is not that Miss Julia Heartwell?” directing, at the same time, his attention towards that young lady, who hitherto, from her position, had escaped our observation: “how lovely she looks this evening, with her tiara of white roses!” Tom coloured: “So it is,” he replied; “I did not expect to meet her here.” So saying, and after a pause to muster courage, Ensign Rattleton moved across the room; a fine, well-made, broad-shouldered young fellow he was too, and in his tight, well-fitting raggie, or Swiss jacket (one of the neatest turnouts of Messrs. Gibson and Pawling), his small and gracefully-tied sash, his white Cossack trousers, and grenadier wings (of which he was especially proud), it would have been difficult to conceive a more elegant figure, or one in which youth, strength, and symmetry were more happily blended. Tom evidently did not wish to appear marked and particular, or to excite more observation than could be well avoided; he consequently made his approaches very gradually, speaking to some other young ladies of his acquaintance in the group before he addressed the _objet aimée_. I marked the pretty Julia, who, though doubtless aware of the motive, bit her lip, and seemed ill to bear even this assumed indifference. True love is a brittle affair, and, like a box of china, must be managed “with caution.” Tom, however, at length approached; many a curious eye was upon them, and now, “rebel nature” unfurled her crimson flag, and the little god of love beat his rat-tat-too; in other words, the conscious blush overspread the lovely Julia’s countenance, and the palpitations of her bosom told full plainly all that was passing in the little heart beneath. Ensign Rattleton, with an attempt at unconcern, presented his hand, and a seat being unoccupied by her side, he rather awkwardly (for he was not himself) slid into it. Poor Tom! his efforts at composure, marred by the consciousness that he was the object of observation—his blushes and her tell-tale looks of mingled tenderness and admiration, were all too palpable to escape notice.