“Well, I declare, so I have,” rejoined the culprit, a little shocked and a good deal amused at the mischief he had occasioned; then striking into the tune of the outraged ditty, he sang in an impish soprano, and with grimaces wonderful to behold-- “‘That smile--when once--de-par-ar-ar-arted, Must leave--me bro--ken har-ar-ir-arted.’ “Oh! Emily, what a mess we have made of ‘broken-hearted,’ to be sure I’m so sorry, but what fun!” And then came a burst of ringing, happy, childish laughter, which, of course, sealed his forgiveness: no one could think him to blame after _that_. “I wonder where Percy is; I scarcely ever knew him late before,” observed Mrs. Colville, when quiet had been restored. “Sarah tells me he is out riding,” returned Emily, applying herself with very unnecessary energy to cut bread and butter. As she spoke, the clatter of horses’ feet became audible, and, in another moment, Percy cantered past the window. “Where can the boy have been?” ejaculated Emily, holding the loaf lovingly, as though she was afraid of hurting the poor thing. “I know, I do!” observed Hugh, from under the table, whence, having in his mind’s eye metamorphosed himself into a wolf, he was preparing to spring out and devour Emily. “_You_ know, Hugh!” repeated Mrs. Colville in surprise; “come from under the table, then, and tell me.” “But, mamma, I’m a wolf, and just going to eat up Emily.” “Not now, dear,” was the calm reply, as if a daughter more or less devoured by wild beasts was of little moment to that un-anxious mother; “come here, and tell me about Percy.” “Well, you know, mamma,” began Hugh, emerging from his hiding-place, and assuming the grave air of a _raconteur_, “when Percy came to bed last night, he did not go to bed at all--that is, not for a very, very, very long time. Do you know, I think”--and here he put on a solemn face, and spoke with an air of mystery--“I think he was not in bed at twelve o’clock, perhaps not till almost one!” Having disclosed this frightful fact, he paused and nodded like a bird, for the greater effect, ere he continued: “I went to sleep long before, but, whenever I opened my eyes, there he sat, still write, write, writing on, as if he was writing his life, like Robinson Crusoe--only,” he added, parenthetically--“only he’s got no man Friday.” “But what could he be writing?” exclaimed Emily, coquetting with the large bread-knife.