Mr. Pynsent never did, and never could appear to advantage, under the ridicule which his lady's address always threw around him; but he did not observe the _de haut en bas_ manner, or else long custom had taken away all feeling upon the extraordinary nature of her remarks. Probably he had long felt assured the evil was irremediable. His own manner was very courteous, but Mr. Pynsent was not a man of many words. He surrendered all speech quietly into the hands of his lady, and contented himself with silently listening to the remarks of others, without adventuring his own. Mr. Pynsent took no notice of her question. "What's the matter, Bobby?" repeated Mrs. Pynsent. "Can't you admire Miss Bell, without screwing up your poor old pair of greys? It's a fair face to look upon, isn't it, after gazing upon poor Sal. Miss Bell, poor Sally Hancock is in a precious pickle." "I heard of it from Isabel." "You never saw such a poor thing!--all over with Sal, Miss Bell; but the poor creature is so cast down! She has a room here now, to be amused by the children, and watch their antics; and, luckily, you know, she can't speak plain, to put bad words in their mouths. Poor Sally! I could not let her remain at Lea, in that state; and I think she is very comfortable here with the children and Bobby." "Where are the children? Where is Tom, and where is Moll and Bab?" asked Tom Pynsent. "Bell must see the children--Bell will want to see the children--I thought I heard them screaming just now, somewhere." "They were fighting over a brush just now in the second hall," replied his mother, "and they nearly killed the baby. I expected the poor little thing would have got a broken head in the scuffle, but he fought like a fury, and sent his fist into Moll's eye." "They do fight dreadfully," observed Anna Maria. "Let them alone, I won't have them checked," cried their grandmother; "when they have had thumps enough, they will be quiet. Moll is worse than the baby; but their spirits are so high, I won't have them cowed." "Bell," said Tom Pynsent, with a tone and look of honest pride, "you have pretty scamps for your relations. Tom rides a Shetland after the hounds, and Moll runs up a tree like a young squirrel. Bab and the baby are improving, too, by their example. Tally ho! I hear them!" he ran to the door, and opened it. "Tally ho, there! Tom and Moll, bring the litter this way!" The four children burst into the drawing-room like a pack of hounds, and the baby, a stout child of a year old toddling in, he fell down, and the others ran over him. Tom Pynsent caught up the sturdy boy. "Don't give tongue, you young rascal, but fight 'em, Bill--here, double your fists at them all." The child mechanically closed his little fists, and his father placed him before Miss Bab. "Battle her well, Bill, rattle her."