“That’s true, sir,” said Pomona, thoughtfully, “an’ I made a pretty close shave of it this time, for when I was talkin’ to the earl, I was just on the p’int of tellin’ him that I had such a high opinion of his kind o’ folks that I once named a big black dog after one of ’em, but I jus’ remembered in time, an’ slipped on to somethin’ else.  But I trembled worse than a peanut woman with a hackman goin’ round the corner to ketch a train an’ his hubs just grazin’ the legs of her stand.  An’ so I promise you, sir, that I’ll put my heel on all hankerin’ after potentates.”

And so she made her promise.  And, knowing Pomona, I felt sure that she would keep it—­if she could.

POMONA’S DAUGHTER.

In the pretty walk, bordered by bright flowers and low, overhanging shrubbery, which lies back of the Albert Memorial, in Kensington Gardens, London, Jonas sat on a green bench, with his baby on his knee.  A few nurses were pushing baby-carriages about in different parts of the walk, and there were children playing not far away.  It was drawing toward the close of the afternoon, and Jonas was thinking it was nearly time to go home, when Pomona came running to him from the gorgeous monument, which she had been carefully inspecting.

“Jone,” she cried, “do you know I’ve been lookin’ at all them great men that’s standin’ round the bottom of the monnyment, an’ though there’s over a hundred of ’em, I’m sure, I can’t find a American among ’em!  There’s poets, an’ artists, an’ leadin’ men, scraped up from all parts, an’ not one of our illustrious dead.  What d’ye think of that?”

“I can’t believe it,” said Jonas.  “If we go home with a tale like that we’ll hear the recruiting-drum from Newark to Texas, and, ten to one, I’ll be drafted.”

“You needn’t be makin’ fun,” said Pomona; “you come an’ see for yourself.  Perhaps you kin’ find jus’ one American, an’ then I’ll go home satisfied.”

“All right,” said Jonas.

And, putting the child on the bench, he told her he’d be back in a minute, and hurried after Pomona, to give a hasty look for the desired American.

Corinne, the offspring of Jonas and Pomona, had some peculiarities.  One of these was that she was accustomed to stay where she was put.  Ever since she had been old enough to be carried about, she had been carried about by one parent or the other; and, as it was frequently necessary to set her down, she had learned to sit and wait until she was taken up again.  She was now nearly two years old, very strong and active, and of an intellect which had already begun to tower.  She could walk very well, but Jonas took such delight in carrying her that he seldom appeared to recognize her ability to use her legs.  She could also talk, but how much her parents did not know.  She was a taciturn child, and preferred to keep her thoughts to herself, and, although she sometimes astonished us all by imitating remarks she had heard, she frequently declined to repeat the simplest words that had been taught her.