"Well, my dear, perhaps I am wrong in expecting you to _think_--reflection is the habit of a riper age than yours. You must trust me for one year, and at the expiration of that period, you and your sister shall decide whether we return to town or remain in the country." "Oh, mother! how very good you are. One year--well, one year won't be so very long--only think, Julia, in one year we shall be back again." "Not quite so fast, Edward," said his mother; "you are not to decide till the end of the year." "Oh, I know that, mama, but of course we shall decide to come back." Mrs. Sackville looked incredulous, and smiled at his childish confidence in his own constancy. "I see, mother, you don't believe me; but of course, Julia and I can't wish to live away from every thing that is amusing." "Come, Julia, your brother has taken it upon himself to be spokesman, but let me hear from you, what are the amusements that you so dread to leave." "Why, in the first place, mother, there is our dancing-school: every time I go to take my lesson, Mr. Dubois says, 'Pauvre, Miss Julie, point de cotillon; point de gavots in de country; ah, qu'il est sauvage--de country.'" "Dubois for ever!" exclaimed Edward, as Julia finished her mimicry of her master's tone and grimace. "Oh, he is the drollest creature--and Julia is such a mimic--the girls will have nobody to make them laugh when she is gone." Mrs. Sackville secretly rejoiced that Julia was to be removed, in a great degree, from the temptation to exercise so mischievous a faculty. She, however, did not turn the drift of the conversation to make any remarks on it. "Console Mr. Dubois," she said, "my dear, Julia, with the assurance, that your mother will take care that you do not lose the benefit of his labors in the service of the graces. Your father tells me, there is in our neighborhood a very decent musician, who does all the fiddling for the parish. I have purchased some cotillon music, and I hope your favorite tunes will soon resound in our new mansion." "Oh, that will be delightful, mother, but Edward and I cannot dance a cotillon alone." "No, but we are not going to a desert. There are enough clever children in the neighborhood, who will form a set with you; and now, Julia, that I see by your brightened eye, that you think the affliction of leaving the dancing-school will be alleviated, what is the next subject of your regret?" "The next, mother? what is next, Edward?" "I do not know what you will call next, Julia, but I think the theatre comes next." "O! the theatre--yes, the theatre--how could I forget the theatre?" "Well, my children, I think you can live without the theatre, as you go but once, or at most twice in a season; a pleasure that occupies so small a portion of your time, cannot be very important to your happiness, or regretted very deeply."