It was in a small room in a lodging-house in the suburb of H---- that Mrs. Morton was seated by the window, nervously awaiting the knock of the postman, who was expected to bring her brother's reply to her letter. It was therefore between ten and eleven o'clock--a morning in the merry month of June. It was hot and sultry, which is rare in an English June. A flytrap, red, white, and yellow, suspended from the ceiling, swarmed with flies; flies were on the ceiling, flies buzzed at the windows; the sofa and chairs of horsehair seemed stuffed with flies. There was an air of heated discomfort in the thick, solid moreen curtains, in the gaudy paper, in the bright-staring carpet, in the very looking-glass over the chimney-piece, where a strip of mirror lay imprisoned in an embrace of frame covered with yellow muslin. We may talk of the dreariness of winter; and winter, no doubt, is desolate: but what in the world is more dreary to eyes inured to the verdure and bloom of Nature--, "The pomp of groves and garniture of fields," --than a close room in a suburban lodging-house; the sun piercing every corner; nothing fresh, nothing cool, nothing fragrant to be seen, felt, or inhaled; all dust, glare, noise, with a chandler's shop, perhaps, next door? Sidney armed with a pair of scissors, was cutting the pictures out of a story-book, which his mother had bought him the day before. Philip, who, of late, had taken much to rambling about the streets--it may be, in hopes of meeting one of those benevolent, eccentric, elderly gentlemen, he had read of in old novels, who suddenly come to the relief of distressed virtue; or, more probably, from the restlessness that belonged to his adventurous temperament;--Philip had left the house since breakfast. "Oh! how hot this nasty room is!" exclaimed Sidney, abruptly, looking up from his employment. "Sha'n't we ever go into the country, again, mamma?" "Not at present, my love." "I wish I could have my pony; why can't I have my pony, mamma?" "Because,--because--the pony is sold, Sidney." "Who sold it?" "Your uncle." "He is a very naughty man, my uncle: is he not? But can't I have another pony? It would be so nice, this fine weather!" "Ah! my dear, I wish I could afford it: but you shall have a ride this week! Yes," continued the mother, as if reasoning with herself, in excuse of the extravagance, "he does not look well: poor child! he must have exercise." "A ride!--oh! that is my own kind mamma!" exclaimed Sidney, clapping his hands. "Not on a donkey, you know!--a pony. The man down the street, there, lets ponies. I must have the white pony with the long tail. But, I say, mamma, don't tell Philip, pray don't; he would be jealous." "No, not jealous, my dear; why do you think so?" "Because he is always angry when I ask you for anything. It is very unkind in him, for I don't care if he has a pony, too,--only not the white one."