Although at that time many persons dined early, the custom of late dinners was being generally introduced. Harry arranged his toilet with more than usual care, and somewhat before the hour of five took his way to his uncle's house in Broad Street. It was a handsome mansion. As Harry knocked, the door flew open, and a couple of livery servants with powdered hair stood ready to receive him, and take his hat and cloak. He followed the servant up-stairs, and was ushered into a large drawing-room. A lady came forward, not very young, according to his idea, but fair and good-looking, with a somewhat full figure, and a pleasant expression of countenance. "And are you our cousin Harry?" she said, putting out her hand. "Why did you not come before? We heard about you, and are very glad at last to make your acquaintance." "I scarcely liked to come without my uncle's invitation," said Harry, "but am very happy to have the opportunity of making his daughter's acquaintance. I conclude that you are Miss Coppinger." "Yes, I am generally so called," answered the young lady, "but I am your cousin Martha, remember that. You must not be formal with us. My younger sisters may encourage you to be so, but you must not attend to their nonsense." "I should like to know something about them," said Harry, feeling himself quite at home with Martha, evidently a kind and sensible woman, and, as people would say, a bit of a character. "That's very sensible in you, Harry," she answered. "Fortunately they have been all out, and only lately went up to dress, so that I shall have time to tell you about them. Next to me there is Susan--she is like me in most respects, and some people take us for twins. However, she really is two years younger. Then there is Mary. She has only one fault. She is somewhat sentimental, and too fond of poetry--reads Cowper and Crabbe, and Miss Burney's novels, half-bound volumes in marble covers. She sighs over Evelina, and goes into raptures with Clarissa. She is dark, thin, and slight, not a bit like Susan and me. Then there is Maria Jane. She is fair and addicted to laughing, and very good-natured, and not a bit sentimental. Then there is Estella. Harry, you must take care of her. She is something like Mary, but more lively and more practical too. Mary lives in an idea of her own: Estella carries out her romantic notions. Then there is our youngest sister, Sybella, or baby we always used to call her, but she rather objects to the appellation. You must find out about her yourself. There, now you know us all. You are known to us, so you will find yourself perfectly at home by the time you see us assembled round the dinner-table. As we have no brothers we shall make a great deal of you, and take care that you are not spoilt. Above all things, don't fall in love. You will become hideous and useless if you do. I don't at all approve of the passion, except when exhibited in gentlemen of