“Oh, thank you, mamma!” cried Alice, running up to her mother and kissing her on the check with what the French call effusion,—“thank you!” “And what are you up to now, Rattle-brain?” asked her mother, looking at her daughter with a smile full of affectionate admiration. “You see, Mr. Whacker,” said Alice, turning to me with earnest gravity in her eyes, under which their irrepressible twinkle could have been discernible only to those who knew her well,—“you see I have been in love with him ever since I first saw him, and I infer from mamma’s remark that should anything ever come of it, I should find in her an ally.” “Well, we shall see,” said her mother, laughing. “And what does Miss Mary think of him?” “Oh, I’ll tell you,” promptly began Alice. “Mary, who is, you know, of a very romant—” “Suppose, Miss Chatterbox, you will be so good,” interrupted her mother, “as to let Mary speak for herself.” “’Tis ever thus,” sighed Alice, pouting, “never allowed to open my poor little mouth!” “I give you permission now,” said Mary. “Tell Mr. Whacker, if you know, what I think of the Don.” “The who?” “The Don; that’s what we call him.” “What! is he a Spaniard?” “Not at all. You must know, we put Laura up to asking him his name, and she brought back the drollest one imaginable,—‘Don Miff.’ Think of it! But of course Laura got it all wrong; that could not be any human being’s name,—of course not.” “The Don part of it,” broke in Alice, “has confirmed Mary in her previously entertained opinion that he was a nobleman of some sort travelling _incog._; it would be so novelly, you know; though what good it could do _her_ I cannot conceive, even were it so, for it was I who ‘sighted’ him first; it was I to whom he first offered his hand; mark that! it was I who first fell in love with him; and I wish it distinctly understood that as against the present company”—and she made a sweeping courtesy—“he—is—MINE!” “I waive all my rights,” said I. “Yes; but I don’t know how it will be with these girls, particularly Mary; for Mary is, in my opinion, already infatuated,—yes, _infatuated_ with this Don Miff, as he calls himself.” “Why, Alice, how can you say so?” But an explosion all around the circle aroused Mary to the consciousness that once more and for the thousand and first time she had failed to detect the banter that lay in ambush behind her friend’s assumed earnestness. “Oh, I knew you couldn’t mean it,” said she, with a faint smile. “The truth is, Mr. Whacker,” continued she, “I am not sure that I altogether like this mysterious Don. Do you know, Alice, I should be afraid of him?” “Afraid of him! Why, pray?” “Well, perhaps I am jumping at conclusions, as they say we women all do; but, unless I am greatly mistaken, that man, while he might be a very staunch friend, is certainly capable of proving a most unrelenting foe.” “Oh, I am sure you do him injustice,” said Lucy.