And then the month brought down from West Point the son of the
family, who cut _off_--or cut _at_--Georgiana's toes, I remember.
With him a sort of cousin, who lives in New York State; and after
a few days of toploftical strutting around town, and a pussillanimous
crack or two over the back-garden fence at my birds, they went away
again, to the home of this New York cousin, carrying Georgiana with
them to spend the summer.

Nothing has happened since. Only Sylvia and I have been making hay
while the sun shines--or does not shine, if one chooses to regard
Georgiana's absence in that cloudy fashion. Sylvia's ordinary armor
consists of a slate-pencil for a spear, a slate for a shield, and
a volume of Sir Walter for a battle-axe. Now and then I have found
her sitting alone in the arbor with the drooping air of Lucy Ashton
beside the fountain; and she would be better pleased if I met her
clandestinely there in cloak and plume with the deadly complexion
of Ravenswood.

The other day I caught her toiling at something, and she admitted
being at work on a poem which would be about half as long as the
"Lay of the Last Minstrel." She read me the opening lines, after
that bland habit of young writer; and as nearly as I recollect,
they began as follows:

"I love to have gardens, I love to have plants, I love to have
air, and I love to have ants."

When not under the spell of mediaeval chivalry she prattles needlessly
of Georgiana, early life, and their old home in Henderson. Although
I have pointed out to her the gross impropriety of her conduct, she