“He was nice to look at!” reply
I cautiously.
“That is a very different thing!” says
Barbara, laughing. “But was he nice in
himself?”
I reflect.
“No,” say I, “I do not think he
was: at least, he wanted a great deal of alteration.”
“As I have no doubt that you told him,”
says Algy, with a smile.
“I dare say I did,” reply I, distantly,
for I am not pleased with Algy.
A little pause.
“I think he was nice, too, in a way”
say I, rather compunctiously. “I used to
tell him about all of you, and—I dare say
it was pretense— but he seemed to
like to hear about you! When I came away, he sent
his love to Barbara; he would not send any messages
to you boys—he said he hated boys!”
“Humph!” Another short silence. The
elders have gone in to tea. Through the windows,
I see the lamp-light shining on the tea-cups.
“Algy!” say I, in a rather low voice,
edging a little nearer to where he lies gracefully
outspread, “you did not mean it, really?
You do not think I—I—I—neglected
the general, do you?—you do not think I—I—
liked to be away from him?”
“My lady!” replies he, teasingly, “I
think nothing! I only know what your ladyship
was good enough to tell me!”
Then we all get up, shoulder our rugs, and walk in.
Well, no one will deny that Sunday comes after Saturday;
and it was Saturday evening, when the heavens painted
themselves with fire, and the sun lit up all the house-windows
to welcome us home. Sunday is not usually one
of our blandest days, but we must hope for the best.
“General,” say I, standing before him,
dressed for morning church, after having previously
turned slowly round on the point of my toes, to favor
him with the back view of as delightful a bonnet, and
as airily fresh and fine a muslin gown, as ever young
woman said her prayers in— “by-the-by,
do you like my calling you general?”
“At least I understand who you mean by it,”
he says, a little evasively; “which, after all,
is the great thing, is not it?”
“It is my own invention,” say I, rather
proudly; “nobody put it into my head, and nobody
else calls you by it, do they?”
“Not now.”
“Not now?” cry I, surprised; “but
did they ever?”
“Yes,” he says, “for about a year,
most people did; I was general a year before my brother
died.”
“Your brother died?” cry I, again
repeating his words, and arching my eyebrows, which
have not naturally the slightest tendency toward describing
a semicircle. “What! you had a brother,
too, had you? I never knew that before.”
“Did you think you had a monopoly of
them?” laughing a little.
“So you were not ‘Sir’ always?”
“No more than you are,” he answers,
smiling. “No, I was not born in the purple;
for thirty-seven years of my life I earned my own bread—and
rather dry bread too.”
