self-contradictory voice, if such a description is permissible--a voice
at once high in pitch and mild in tone: in short, as Mr. Le Frank once
professionally remarked, a soft falsetto. When the good gentleman
paused to make his little effort of memory, his eldest daughter--aged
twelve, and always ready to distinguish herself--saw her opportunity,
and took the rest of the narrative into her own hands.

Miss Maria, named after her mother, was one of the successful new
products of the age we live in--the conventionally-charming child (who
has never been smacked); possessed of the large round eyes that we see
in pictures, and the sweet manners and perfect principles that we read
of in books. She called everybody "dear;" she knew to a nicety how much
oxygen she wanted in the composition of her native air; and--alas, poor
wretch!--she had never wetted her shoes or dirtied her face since the
day when she was born.

"Dear Miss Minerva," said Maria, "the pastry-cook's name was Timbal. We
have had ices."

His mind being now set at rest on the subject of the pastry-cook, Mr.
Gallilee turned to his youngest daughter--aged ten, and one of the
unsuccessful products of the age we live in. This was a curiously slow,
quaint, self-contained child; the image of her father, with an
occasional reflection of his smile; incurably stupid, or incurably
perverse--the friends of the family were not quite sure which. Whether
she might have been over-crammed with useless knowledge, was not a
question in connection with the subject which occurred to anybody.

"Rouse yourself, Zo," said Mr. Gallilee. "What did we have besides
ices?"