One day Mr. Mohun chanced to refer to some passage in Waverley, and
on finding that his daughters did not understand him, he expressed
great surprise at their want of taste.

Poor things,' said Claude, 'they cannot help it; do not you know that
Eleanor thinks the Waverley Novels a sort of slow poison? They know
no more of them than their outsides.'

'Well, the sooner they know the inside the better.'

'Then may we really read them, papa?' cried Lily.

'And welcome,' said her father.

This permission once given, the young ladies had no idea of
moderation; Lily's heart and soul were wrapped up in whatever tale
she chanced to be reading--she talked of little else, she neglected
her daily occupations, and was in a kind of trance for about three
weeks. At length she was recalled to her senses by her father's
asking her why she had shown him no drawings lately. Lily hesitated
for a moment, and then said, 'Papa, I am sorry I was so idle.'

'Take care,' said Mr. Mohun, 'let us be able to give a good account
of ourselves when Eleanor comes.'

'I am afraid, papa,' said Lily, 'the truth is, that my head has been
so full of Woodstock for the last few days, that I could do nothing.'

'And before that?'