Spight is much above human emawtion, you know, and all that sawt of thing, you know-ah!”

“Besides,” continued Min, not taking any notice of our friend’s original remark I was glad to see, “one does not always cry over novels. I’m sure I’ve laughed more than I’ve wept over Dickens, and other authors.”

“Ah!” said Lady Dasher, with a melancholy shake of her head, “life is too serious for merry-making! It is better to mourn than to rejoice, as I’ve often heard my poor dear papa say when he was alive.”

“Nonsense, ma!” pertly said her daughter Seraphine; “you can’t believe that. I’m sure I’d rather laugh than cry, any day. And so would you, too, ma, in spite of your seriousness!”

“Your mamma is quite right in some respects, my dear,” said little Miss Pimpernell. “We should not be always thinking of nothing but merry-making. Don’t you recollect those lines of my favourite Herrick?—

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 “‘Time flies away fast! The while we never remember, How soon our life here Grows old with the year, That dies in December.’” 

“Yes, I do, you cross old thing!” said the seraph, shaking her golden locks and laughing saucily; “and I remember also that your ‘favourite Herrick’ says something else about one’s ‘gathering rose-buds whilst one may.’”

“You naughty girl!” said Miss Pimpernell, trying to look angry and frown at her; but the attempt was such a palpable pretence that we all laughed at her as much as the delinquent.

“And what is your favourite style of poetry, Miss Clyde?” asked the curate, taking advantage of the introduction of Herrick to change the subject.

And then there followed a chorus of discussion: Miss Spight declared she adored Wordsworth: Mr Mawley tried to show off his superiority, and I attempted to put him down; I believe I was jealous lest Min should agree with him.

“Now, Frank,” exclaimed Miss Pimpernell, “I will not have any more sparring between you and Mr Mawley, for I’m sure you’ve argued enough. It is ‘the merry Christmas-time,’ you know; and we ought all to be at peace, and gay and happy, too! What do you say, girls?”

“But what shall we do to be merry?” asked Bessie Dasher.

“Ah! my dear,” groaned her mother; “it is not right to be 

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