This part of the game is generally considered the most amusing, for the penalties, as at Rookwood Grange, are generally the most whimsical and ridiculous that can be devised. Bob Link was elected to the office of sentencer on this occasion, and when I saw what he inflicted, I began to quake for myself, as I remembered the one white glove of mine that lay in the confiscated heap before him. He took up a silk handkerchief and began—“Here is a thing, and a very pretty thing, whose, let me know, is this pretty thing?” Curly Mr. Dick acknowledged it, whereupon he was ordered to lie flat on the floor and repeat the following absurd lines:— “Here lies the length of a long, lazy lubber, And here must he lie Till the lass he loves best comes and kisses him.” There seemed every chance of his continuing to decorate the floor all night, for in spite of his touching and laughable appeals, of course no one went near him; so, at last, up he sprang, and catching Cousin Kate, he kissed her; Kate not testifying any reliable signs of wrath, but only knitting her brows, while her eyes and lips laughed. Then lanky Cousin Joseph was ordered to “bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, and kiss the lass _he_ loved best,” all of which ceremonies he performed before one and the same person—namely, Cousin Sophy, who was unfeignedly indignant thereat—Cousin Joseph always testified for her a loutish but most sincere and humble admiration. Another young man had to sing a song, which he did in the dolefulest manner, ending each verse with an unsupported chorus of “If we fall, we’ll get up again, we always did yet!” which was every word of the ditty that I could distinguish. Then I saw my own poor little glove drawn out, and Mr. Bob Link repeated his incantation—“Here is a thing, and a very pretty thing, whose, let me know, is this pretty thing?” and when I quivered out that it was mine, he said, “Oh! little Miss Poppy, it is yours, is it? Well, then, you must stand in the middle of the kitchen, under that green bush you see hanging down, and spell _opportunity_ with Mr. David——” I thought I could do _that_, being well up in dictation-class at school, so when Cousin David laughing took me off to the public station, where the penalty was to be performed, I began breathlessly—“O-p op, p-o-r por;” when he cried, “No, no, that’s wrong; I must teach you,” and bending down his face, he was actually proposing to kiss me between each syllable, when I flung up one of my little paws and clutched his hair, ducked my own head down, finished the word, broke loose, and scurried back to my place in much less time than it has taken me to record the feat, while Cousin David, in the midst of a shout of laughter, cried out: “You little vixen!” while I asseverated vehemently, “I spelt it, I spelt it, I spelt it!” in answer to an outcry, that it would not do, and I must go back again. I would not do that, however, and Cousin David came and sat down by me feeling his