"I'm surprised to hear you say so, Maud," said the generous-minded and
affectionate Beulah, who could see no imperfection in Bob; "and that of
your brother. When he taught _you_ to draw, you thought him well
skilled as an artist."

"Did I?--I dare say I'm a capricious creature--but, somehow, I don't
regard Bob, just as I used to. He has been away from us so much, of
late, you know--and the army makes men so formidable--and, they are not
like us, you know--and, altogether, I think Bob excessively changed."

"Well, I'm glad mamma don't hear this, Maud. She looks upon her son,
now he is a major, and twenty-seven, just as she used to look upon him,
when he was in petticoats--nay, I think she considers us all exactly as
so many little children."

"She is a dear, good mother, I know," said Maud, with emphasis, tears
starting to her eyes, involuntarily, almost _impetuously_--
"whatever she says, does, wishes, hopes, or thinks, is right."

"Oh! I knew you would come to, as soon as there was a question about
mother! Well, for my part, I have no such horror of men, as not to feel
just as much tenderness for father or brother, as I feel for mamma,
herself."

"Not for Bob, Beulah. Tenderness for Bob! Why, my dear sister, that is
feeling tenderness for a _Major of Foot_, a very different thing
from feeling it for one's mother. As for papa--dear me, he is glorious,
and I do so love him!"