that know so little of the world, my dear Amelia--but, in general, it is
always foolish to mention things."

"Always foolish to mention things!" cried Mr. Beaumont, smiling.

"Of this sort, I mean," said Mrs. Beaumont, a little disconcerted.

"Of what sort?" persisted her son.

"Hush! my dear; here's the postboy and the ass."

"Any letters, my good little boy? Any letters for me?"

"I has, madam, a many for the house. I does not know for who--the bag
will tell," said the boy, unstrapping the bag from his shoulders.

"Give it to me, then," said Mrs. Beaumont: "I am anxious for letters
always." She was peculiarly anxious now to open the post-bag, to put a
stop to a conversation which did not please her. Whilst seated on a
rustic seat, under a spreading beech, our heroine, with her accustomed
looks of mystery, examined the seals of her numerous and important
letters, to ascertain whether they had been opened at the post-office,
or whether their folds might have been pervious to any prying eye. Her
son tore the covers off the newspapers; and, as he unfolded one,
Amelia leaned upon his shoulder, and whispered softly, "Any news of
the fleet, brother?"

Mrs. Beaumont, than whom Fine-ear himself had not quicker auditory
nerves, especially for indiscreet whispers, looked up from her letters,
and examined, unperceived, the countenance of Amelia, who was searching