"I suppose it was his own doing." "How do you know that ?" cry I, gayly, and then the recollection of my _hint_ to Sir Roger--a remembrance that always makes me rather hot--comes over me, and causes me to turn my head quickly away with a red blush.

"It certainly _has_ a look of Barbara," I say, glancing toward the Saint Catherine, and rushing quickly into another subject.
"Has it ?" he says, apparently unaware of the rapidity of my transition.
"Then I wish I knew Barbara." I laugh.
"I dare say you do." "She is not much like you, I suppose ?" he says, turning from the saint's straight and strict Greek profile to the engaging irregularity of mine.
"Not exactly," say I, with emphasis.

"Ah!" (in a tone of prospective triumph), "wait till you see her!" "I am afraid that I shall have to wait some time." "The Brat--that is one of my brothers, you know--is the one like me," I say, becoming diffuse, as I always do, when the theme of my family is started; "we _are_ like! We can see it ourselves." "Is he one of the thick-skinned six that you told me about ?" "There are _not_ six," cry I, impatiently.

"I do not know what put it into your head that there were _six_; there are only _three_." "You certainly told me there were six." "I am _he_ in petticoats," say I, resuming the thread of my own narrative; "everybody sees the likeness.

One day when he was three or four years younger, we dressed him up in my things--my gown and bonnet, you know--and all the servants took him for me; they only found him out because he held up his gown so awkwardly high, and gave it such great kicks to keep it out of his way, that they saw his great nailed boots! Sir Roger thought we were twins the first time he saw us." "Sir Roger!" repeats the young man, as if reminded by the name of something he had meant to say.