She put the machine into my hands: it was about the size of the lid of a
shaving-box: and I should as soon have thought of wearing it as of
wearing a cocked-hat and pigtail. I was so disgusted and disappointed
that I really could not get out a single word.

When I recovered my presence of mind a little, I took the locket out of
the bit of paper (the locket indeed! it was as big as a barndoor
padlock), and slowly put it into my shirt. "Thank you, Aunt," said I,
with admirable raillery. "I shall always value this present for the sake
of you, who gave it me; and it will recall to me my uncle, and my
thirteen aunts in Ireland."

"I don't want you to wear it in _that_ way!" shrieked Mrs. Hoggarty,
"with the hair of those odious carroty women. You must have their hair
removed."

"Then the locket will be spoiled, Aunt."

"Well, sir, never mind the locket; have it set afresh."

"Or suppose," said I, "I put aside the setting altogether: it is a little
too large for the present fashion; and have the portrait of my uncle
framed and placed over my chimney-piece, next to yours. It's a sweet
miniature."

"That miniature," said Mrs. Hoggarty, solemnly, "was the great Mulcahy's
_chef-d'oeuvre_" (pronounced _shy dewver_, a favourite word of my aunt's;
being, with the words _bongtong_ and _ally mode de Parry_, the extent of
her French vocabulary). "You know the dreadful story of that poor poor
artist. When he had finished that wonderful likeness for the late Mrs.