“Then I have lost my wager,” exclaimed Mr. Seymour, “for I defy the power of man to make either head or _tail_ of it.” Thus did Mr. and Mrs. Seymour proceed; the one cutting paper, the other cutting jokes; nor did the former cease stringing puns, until he had finished stringing the tail. “I must now conclude by making a knot that shall not be in danger of becoming untied in the breeze,” said Mr. Seymour: “but stop, stop one moment! I still require one more piece of paper to complete my task, and let it be double.” “Here then is a piece of paper, which, from its texture, appears to be well adapted to your purpose. Let me see, what is it? I declare it is the titlepage of an Essay on Matrimony.” “Capital!” cried her husband; “a strange coincidence, truly; you have, indeed, furnished me with a knot that cannot be easily untied, however stiff may be the breeze; hand it over to me, for it will afford a very legitimate finish, and is generally the conclusion of every _tale_: but where is the vicar? What, ho! Mr. Twaddleton.” The reverend gentleman had so contrived to conceal his person in the corner of the room, behind a large folio which he had placed on a desk before him, that several moments elapsed before he was discovered; at length, however, a long-drawn sigh betrayed him in his retreat. “Upon my word,” exclaimed he, as he pushed aside the huge folio, “your volatility, Mr. Seymour, is wholly inconsistent with the gravity of a scientific instructor.” “But, at present,” replied Mr. Seymour, “I am the manufacturer of a kite’s tail; and, surely, upon such an occasion, _flightiness_ ought not to be urged to my disparagement.” The party, shortly after this discussion, separated: Mr. Seymour retired to his own room; the vicar proceeded to the church to bury a patient of Doseall’s; and the children ran into the garden to enjoy their rural sports. On the following day, before the wings of the lark had brushed away the morning dew, Tom and his sisters, buoyant with expectation, had descended into the garden, in order to ascertain the state of the weather and the direction of the wind; but the sky was sullen and calm, not a breath disturbed the susceptible leaves of the aspen; all was repose--“a dread repose.” “No kite-day this,” sighed Tom, with a countenance as lowering as the morning clouds. “Have patience,” said Louisa; “the wind may yet rise, it is only just six o’clock.”