“Oh, yes, ma’am! she deforms de cookinary boderations as well as ever she did,” and making two or three deep bows, Tarquinius Superbus retired from the conference. There was an unusual kindliness in Hagar’s manner while inquiring after the welfare of her old nurse; one of the blessed influences of sorrow was beginning to manifest itself—her heart was softening, becoming capable of being impressed by the afflictions of others. “Hagar, come!” said Gusty, lifting up a child in each arm, and preceding her from the door. Hagar followed, and no sooner had she emerged into the dazzling sunlight upon the crusted snow, than with a neigh of joy her little jet black pony Starlight, bounded to meet her. She fell upon his neck, caressing him, as if he had been her brother, too surprised and glad to ask an explanation of his arrival. She patted, talked to him, and laying her hand upon his mane, sprang into the saddle with something of her former agility and gladness. She had thought the coming of the dogs accidental, she thought that Gusty had met them on an early hunt, and that they had naturally recognised an old friend and followed him to the house; but now that she felt herself again upon Starlight’s back, with the dogs at her feet, she wondered how it came so. “Sit Agatha here before me, Gusty, I can hold her with one hand, and guide Starlight with the other. I mean to accustom the children early to riding.” “And which _is_ Agatha, and which is Agnes?—hang me if I can tell, though I have a preference! for this little one on my left arm loves me the most, presses close to me, looks up in my face, and seeks my eyes; and if I turn away my head, she puts up her little dimpled hand upon my chin, and turns my face around again, till she can see my eyes. God love her! God bless her! the loving darling! while this other child sits perched upon my arm, as if it were a high chair, with closed lips and level gaze, with all the composed dignity of an infant princess. Now, which is Agatha, and which is Agnes? If my loving darling is Agatha, I won’t give her up.” “No, your favorite is Agnes—the other is Agatha; hand her to me; and, Gusty, I wish you would not manifest the slightest preference for one child above the other—it is a fatal cruelty. Agatha is still, because she has less vitality than her sister; she is more delicate, dear child. I discovered it the first moment I had an opportunity of comparing them.”