“Mother,” he said, after eyeing the little figure before him in silence for some time, and when the temporary absence of Mr. Home from the room relieved him from the half-laughing bashfulness, which was all he knew of timidity—-“Mother, I see a young lady in the present society to whom I have not been introduced.” “Mr. Home’s little girl, I suppose you mean,” said his mother. “Indeed, ma’am,” replied her son, “I consider your expression of the least ceremonious: Miss Home _I_ should certainly have said, in venturing to speak of the gentlewoman to whom I allude.” “Now, Graham, I will not have that child teased. Don’t flatter yourself that I shall suffer you to make her your butt.” “Miss Home,” pursued Graham, undeterred by his mother’s remonstrance, “might I have the honour to introduce myself, since no one else seems willing to render you and me that service? Your slave, John Graham Bretton.” She looked at him; he rose and bowed quite gravely. She deliberately put down thimble, scissors, work; descended with precaution from her perch, and curtsying with unspeakable seriousness, said, “How do you do?” “I have the honour to be in fair health, only in some measure fatigued with a hurried journey. I hope, ma’am, I see you well?” “Tor-rer-ably well,” was the ambitious reply of the little woman and she now essayed to regain her former elevation, but finding this could not be done without some climbing and straining—a sacrifice of decorum not to be thought of—and being utterly disdainful of aid in the presence of a strange young gentleman, she relinquished the high chair for a low stool: towards that low stool Graham drew in his chair. “I hope, ma’am, the present residence, my mother’s house, appears to you a convenient place of abode?” “Not par-tic-er-er-ly; I want to go home.” “A natural and laudable desire, ma’am; but one which, notwithstanding, I shall do my best to oppose. I reckon on being able to get out of you a little of that precious commodity called amusement, which mamma and Mistress Snowe there fail to yield me.” “I shall have to go with papa soon: I shall not stay long at your mother’s.” “Yes, yes; you will stay with me, I am sure. I have a pony on which you shall ride, and no end of books with pictures to show you.” “Are _you_ going to live here now?” “I am. Does that please you? Do you like me?” “No.” “Why?” “I think you queer.” “My face, ma’am?” “Your face and all about you: You have long red hair.” “Auburn hair, if you please: mamma calls it auburn, or golden, and so do all her friends. But even with my ‘long red hair’” (and he waved his mane with a sort of triumph—tawny he himself well knew that it was, and he was proud of the leonine hue), “I cannot possibly be queerer than is your ladyship.” “You call me queer?” “Certainly.” (After a pause) “I think I shall go to bed.” “A little thing like you ought to have been in bed many hours since; but you probably sat up in the expectation of seeing me?”