Besides these young people, Mr Atheling, Mr Foggo, and Mamma, were in the room, conversing among themselves, and taking very little notice of the other visitors. Mamma was making a little frock, upon which she bestowed unusual pains, as it seemed; for no civility of Mr Endicott could gain any answer beyond a monosyllable from the virtuous and indignant mistress of the house. He was playing with his own papers as Agnes and Marian came to the table, affectionately turning them over, and looking at the heading of the “Letter from England” with a loving eye. “You are interested in literature, I believe?” said Mr Endicott. Agnes, Marian, and Harry, all of them glancing at him in the same moment, could not tell which he addressed; so there was a confused murmur of reply. “Not in the slightest,” cried Harry Oswald, behind Marian’s chair. “Oh, but Agnes is!” cried Marian; and Agnes herself, with a conscious blush, acknowledged--“Yes, indeed, very much.” “But not, I suppose, very well acquainted with the American press?” said Mr Endicott. “The bigotry of Europeans is marvellous. We read your leading papers in the States, but I have not met half-a-dozen people in England--actually not six individuals--who were in the frequent habit of seeing the _Mississippi Gazette_.” “We rarely see any newspapers at all,” said Agnes, apologetically. “Papa has his paper in the evenings, but except now and then, when there is a review of a book in it----” “That is the great want of English contemporary literature,” interrupted Mr Endicott. “You read the review--good! but you feel that something else is wanted than mere politics--that votes and debates do not supply the wants of the age!” “If the wants of the age were the wants of young ladies,” said Harry Oswald, “what would become of my uncle and Mr Atheling? Leave things in their proper place, Endicott. Agnes and Marian want something different from newspaper literature and leading articles. Don’t interfere with the girls.” “These are the slavish and confined ideas of a worn out civilisation,” said the man of letters; “in my country we respect the opinions of our women, and give them full scope.” “Respect!--the old humbug!” muttered Harry behind Marian’s chair. “Am I disrespectful? I choose to be judged by you.” Marian glanced over her shoulder with saucy kindness. “Don’t quarrel,” said Marian. No! Poor Harry was so glad of the glance, the smile, and the confidence, that he could have taken Endicott, who was the cause of it, to his very heart.