“Of course you understand Latin, Mr. Littlepage, although you have not been at the universities?” “As it is taught in our own colleges, Miss Mordaunt.” “And that is sufficient to tell me what Mr. Bulstrode's quotation means--if it be proper for me to hear.” “He would hardly presume to use even a Latin saying in your presence, that is unfit for your ear. The maxim which Mr. Bulstrode attributes to Juvenal, simply means 'that honesty is praised and starves.'” I thought that something like displeasure settled on the fair, polished, brow of Miss Mordaunt, who, I could soon see, possessed much character and high principles for one of her tender years. She said nothing, however, though she exchanged a very meaning glance with her friend Mary Wallace. Her lips were moved, and I fancied I could trace the formation of the sounds “honesty is praised and starves!” “And _you_ are to be Cato I hear, Mr. Bulstrode,” cried one of the young ladies, who thought more of a scarlet coat, I fancy, than was for her own good. “How very charming! Will you play the character in regimentals or in mohair--in a modern or in an ancient dress?” “In my _robe de chambre_, a little altered for the occasion, Unless St. Pinkster and his sports should suggest some more appropriate costume,” answered the young man lightly. “Are you quite aware what feast Pinkster is?” asked Anneke, a little gravely. Bulstrode actually changed colour, for it had never crossed his mind to inquire into the character of the holiday; and, to own the truth, the manner in which it is kept by the negroes of New York, never would enlighten him much on the subject. “That is information for which I perceive I am now about to be indebted to Miss Mordaunt.” “Then you shall not be disappointed, Mr. Bulstrode; Pinkster is neither more nor less than the Festival of Whit-sunday, or the Feast of Pentecost. I suppose we shall now hear no more of your saint.” Bulstrode took this little punishment, which was very sweetly but quite steadily uttered, with perfect good-humour, and with a manner so rebuked as to prove that Anneke possessed great control over him. He bowed in submission, and she smiled so kindly, that I wished the occasion for the little pantomime had not occurred. “_Our_ ancestors, Miss Mordaunt, never heard of any Pinkster, you will remember, and that must explain my ignorance,” he said meekly. “But some of _mine_ have long understood it, and observed the festival,” answered Anneke. “Ay, on the side of Holland--but when I presume to speak of _our_ ancestors, I mean those which I can claim the honour of boasting as belonging to me in common with yourself.” “Are you and Mr. Bulstrode, then, related?” I asked, as it might be involuntarily and almost too abruptly. Anneke replied, however, in a way to show that she thought the question natural for the circumstances, and not in the least out of place.