“True,” said Mrs. Beaumont; “but it is civil and kind to leave him to fix his own day, poor old gentleman. After so long a journey, we must allow him some rest. Consider, he can’t go galloping about as you do, dear Edward.” “But,” said Amelia, “as the Walsinghams know he is to be in the country, they will of course come to see him immediately.” “How do they know he is to be in the country?” “I thought--I took it for granted, you told them so, mamma, when you wrote about not going to Walsingham House, on Mr. Walsingham’s birthday.” “No, my dear; I was so full of the chickenpox, and terror about you, I could think of nothing else.” “Thank you, dear mother--but now that is out of the question, I had best write a line by the return of the postboy, to say, that Mr. Palmer is to be here to-day, and that he stays only one week.” “Certainly! love--but let me write about it, for I have particular reasons. And, my dear, now we are by ourselves, let me caution you not to mention that Mr. Palmer can stay but one week: in the first place it is uncivil to him, for we are not sure of it, and it is like driving him away; and in the next place, there are reasons I can’t explain to you, that know so little of the world, my dear Amelia--but, in general, it is always foolish to mention things.” “Always foolish to mention things!” cried Mr. Beaumont, smiling. “Of this sort, I mean,” said Mrs. Beaumont, a little disconcerted. “Of what sort?” persisted her son. “Hush! my dear; here’s the postboy and the ass.” “Any letters, my good little boy? Any letters for me?” “I has, madam, a many for the house. I does not know for who--the bag will tell,” said the boy, unstrapping the bag from his shoulders. “Give it to me, then,” said Mrs. Beaumont: “I am anxious for letters always.” She was peculiarly anxious now to open the post-bag, to put a stop to a conversation which did not please her. Whilst seated on a rustic seat, under a spreading beech, our heroine, with her accustomed looks of mystery, examined the seals of her numerous and important letters, to ascertain whether they had been opened at the post-office, or whether their folds might have been pervious to any prying eye. Her son tore the covers off the newspapers; and, as he unfolded one, Amelia leaned upon his shoulder, and whispered softly, “Any news of the fleet, brother?” Mrs. Beaumont, than whom Fine-ear himself had not quicker auditory nerves, especially for indiscreet whispers, looked up from her letters, and examined, unperceived, the countenance of Amelia, who was searching with eagerness the columns of the paper. As Mr. Beaumont turned over the leaf, Amelia looked up, and, seeing her mother’s eyes fixed upon her, coloured; and from want of presence of mind to invent any thing better to say, asked if her mother wished to have the papers? “No,” said Mrs. Beaumont, coldly, “not I, Amelia; I am not such a politician as you are grown.”