Kate, spite of her great age and near approach to womanhood,
is almost ready to cry:

“Oh cousin Champ!” she says, “how could you!”

[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]

Mr. Effingham yawns.

“Did you speak to me, Katy?” he says languidly.

“Yes!”

“Why, what's the matter?”

“You've ruined my work-box!”

“I!”

“Yes, you knocked it out of the window with your book—
and I think it was not kind,” Kate says, pouting, and
leaning out of the window to gaze at the prostrate work-box.

Mr. Effingham sees the catastrophe at a glance, and apparently
smitten with remorse, tries to ascertain the extent
of the injury. But the morning seems an unlucky one for
him. As he places his heel upon the carpet, he unfortunately
treads with his whole weight upon the long silky ear of his
sister's favorite lapdog Orange, who is about the size of the
fruit from which he takes his name.

Orange utters a yell sufficiently loud to arouse from
their sleep the seven champions of Christendom.

Drawn by his successive yells, a lady appears at the door
and enters the apartment hurriedly.

Miss Alethea, only sister of Mr. Effingham, is a lady of
about thirty, with a clear complexion, serene eyes, her hair
trained back into a tower; and with an extremely stately
and dignified expression. She looks like the president of a
benevolent society, and the very sight of her erect head, the
very rustle of her black silk dress has been known to strike
terror into evil-doers.

“Who has hurt Orange?” she says, severely; “here, poor
fellow!—some one has hurt him!”

Orange yells much louder, seeing his defender.

“What in the world is the matter with him, Champ?”
she says; “please answer me!”

Mr. Effingham regales his nostrils with a pinch of snuff,
and replies indifferently:

“Probably Orange has an indigestion, or perhaps he is
uttering those horrible sounds because I stepped upon his
ear.”

“Stepped on his ear!”

Mr. Effingham nods serenely.

“Really, you are too careless!” Miss Alethea exclaims,
and her black silk rustling, she goes to Orange and takes
him in her arms.

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

But in brushing by Mr. Effingham her ample sleeve
chances to strike that gentleman's snuff-box, and the contents
of the useful article are discharged over little Kate, who
coughing, sneezing, crying and laughing, perfects the scene.

“See what you have done, Alethea!” says Mr. Effingham,
reproachfully, and yawning as he speaks; “you have thrown
my snuff upon Kate.”

And turning to the child:

“Never mind, Kate!” he says, “it's excellent snuff. It
won't hurt you—now don't—”

With such observations Mr. Effingham is quieting the
child, when another addition is made to the company.

This is in the person of a young gentleman of thirteen
or fourteen—Master Willie Effingham, Mr. Champ's brother,
and a devoted admirer of Kate.

Will, seeing his sweetheart in tears, bustles up, upon his
little rosetted shoes, flirting his little round-skirted coat, and
fiercely demands of the company at large:

“Who made Kate cry!”

“Oh, the snuff! the snuff!” says Kate, crying and
laughing.

“Whose snuff!” says Will, indignantly.

“Mine,” replies Mr. Effingham; “there are no excuses
to be made; arrange the terms of the combat.”

“For shame, Champ!” says Miss Alethea, with stately
dignity; “you jest at Willie, but I think his behavior very
honorable.”

“Ah!” you are an advocate of duelling, then, my dear
madam?” drawls Mr. Effingham.

“No, I am not; but your snuff made Kate cry.”

“Deign to recall the slight circumstance that your sleeve
discharged it from my hand.”

“Never mind, I think Will right.”

Will raises his head proudly.

“Kate is his favorite and playmate—”

“As Orange is yours,” says Mr. Effingham, languidly,
the lapdog having uttered an expiring howl. “Well, well,
don't let us argue; I am ready to make the amende to my
little Kate—we are all dear to each other—so here is my
lace handkerchief, ma mignonette, to wipe away the snuff—”

Kate laughs.

[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]

“And here's a kiss, to make friends for the snuff and the
work-box.”

Kate wrung her hands, and says, laughing and pouting;
“Oh my box! my box!”

“Your box!” says Will, who has been looking daggers
at Mr. Effingham for kissing the child.

“Yes! my poor box!”

“Never mind, Katy,” says Mr. Effingham, smiling as
he passes his hand caressingly over the little head; “I unfortunately
broke it, but you shall have one twice as handsome;
I saw one in Williamsburg yesterday, which I thought
of getting for Clare Lee—but you shall have it.”

“Oh, thankee!” cries Kate, “but I oughtn't to take
cousin Clare's, you know! And there's papa! he's got my
box!”

Kate springs forward to meet the squire—the head of
the house—who enters at the door.

The squire is a gentleman of fifty-five or sixty, with an
open frank face, clear, honest eyes, and his carriage is bold,
free, and somewhat pompous. He is clad much more simply
than his eldest son, his coat having upon it not a particle of
embroidery, and his long plain waistcoat buttoning up to the
chin: below which a white cravat and an indication only
of frill are visible. His limbs are cased in thick, strong and
comfortable cloth, and woollen, and he wears boots, very
large and serviceable, to which strong spurs are attached.
His broad, fine brow, full of intelligence and grace, is covered
by an old cocked hat, which, having lost the loops which
held it in the three-cornered shape, is now rolled up upon
each side; and his manner in walking, speaking, arguing,
reading, is much after the description of his costume—plain,
straightforward, and though somewhat pompous, destitute of
finery and ornament. He is the head of a princely establishment,
he has thousands of acres, and hundreds of negroes,
he is a justice, and has sat often in the House of Burgesses:
he is rich, a dignitary, every body knows it,—why should
he strive to ape elegancies, and trouble himself about the
impression he produces? He is simple and plain, as he conceives,
because he is a great proprietor and can afford to
wear rough clothes, and talk plainly.

His pomposity is not obtrusive, and it is tempered with

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

so much good breeding and benevolence that it does not detract
from the pleasant impression produced by his honest
face. As he enters now that face is brown and red with exercise
upon his plantation—and he comes in with cheerful
smiles; his rotund person, and long queue gathered by a
ribbon smiling no less than his eyes.

In his hand is the unfortunate work-box, which has not,
however, sustained any injury.

“Here 'tis, puss!” says the squire, “nothing hurt—I
picked up the scissors and the vest: and the grass was as
soft as a cushion.”

With which words the worthy squire sits down and wipes
his brow.

“Oh, thank'ee, papa,” says Kate—this is the child's name
for him:—and she runs and takes his hat, and then climbs on
his lap, and laughingly explains how cousin Champ hadn't
meant to throw the box out—“because you know me and cousin
Champ are great favorites of each other's: and I am his
pet.”

Having achieved this speech, which she utters with a
rush of laughter in her voice, Kate hugs her box, and returns
to Carlo.

“Well, Champ,” says the planter, “whither go you this
afternoon—any where?”

“I believe not,” says Mr. Effingham.

“Still enamored of your ease, you jolly dog!”

“The Epicurean philosophy is greatly to my taste,” says
Mr. Effingham, “riding wearies me.”

“Every thing does.”

“Ah?”

“Yes, sir: you are the finest fine gentleman in the
Colony.”

This half compliment produces no effect upon Mr. Effingham,
who yawns.

“Why not go and see Clare Lee?—Clary's the most bewitching
little creature in the world,” says the squire, unfolding
a copy of the “Virginia Gazette,” which he draws from
his pocket.

“Clare Lee?” says Mr. Effingham.

“Yes, sir: she's a little beauty.”

“Well, so she is.”

p520-029

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

“And as good as an angel.”

“Hazardous, that, sir.”

“No, sir!” exclaims the squire, “it is true! Zounds!
she's too good for any mortal man.”

“Consequently, as I am a mortal man—I draw the inference,”
says Mr. Effingham.

“Well, she's too good for you, sir: you had better go
and see her: it may improve you.”

Mr. Effingham relents.

“I think that is very desirable, sir,” he says, “and on my
word, I'll go. Please ring that bell.”

The squire without protest takes up the small silver
bell and rings it. Mr. Effingham orders his horse—descends
soon in boots and riding gloves, and mounting, sets forth towards
the abode of the angel—Miss Clare Lee.