make herself out of her scarf a bonnet like Miss Thackthwaite's new one,
and so forth. Pen spouted Byron and Moore; passion and poetry: her
business was to throw up her eyes, or fixing them for a moment on his
face, to cry, "Oh, 'tis beautiful! Ah, how exquisite! Repeat those lines
again." And off the boy went, and she returned to her own simple thoughts
about the turned gown, or the hashed mutton.

In fact Pen's passion was not long a secret from the lovely Emily or her
father. Upon his second visit, his admiration was quite evident to both
of them, and on his departure the old gentleman said to his daughter, as
he winked at her over his glass of grog, "Faith, Milly darling, I think
ye've hooked that chap."

"Pooh, 'tis only a boy, papa dear," Milly remarked. "Sure he's but a
child." Pen would have been very much pleased if he had heard that
phrase--he was galloping home wild with pleasure, and shouting out her
name as he rode.

"Ye've hooked 'um any how," said the Captain, "and let me tell ye he's
not a bad fish. I asked Tom at the George, and Flint, the grocer, where
his mother dales--fine fortune--drives in her chariot--splendid park and
grounds--Fairoaks Park--only son--property all his own at twenty-one--ye
might go further and not fare so well, Miss Fotheringay."

"Them boys are mostly talk," said Milly, seriously. "Ye know at Dublin
how ye went on about young Poldoody, and I've a whole desk full of verses
he wrote me when he was in Trinity College; but he went abroad, and his
mother married him to an Englishwoman."

"Lord Poldoody was a young nobleman; and in them it's natural: and ye