Nay, one day, when, half out of want of something to say, half out of politeness, and—if you will let me divide his motives, as the school-boy, in his translation of Cæsar, did ancient Gaul, which, he said, was quartered into three halves—half out of really thinking it, I praised the beauty of a little girl playing in the room, Mr. Vincent immediately drew so gloomy a picture of the casualties to which beauty is subject, that I am not sure whether he did not talk both mother and child into the small-pox."
At this moment our little group made an involuntary pause, to listen to the conversation of a lady close beside them.
"My story will illustrate my positive assertion. As a child, she was just the Mr. Nobody of the family—that is, the one who does all the mischief done in the house—at least, bears all the blame of it, which is much the same in its consequences. One day, a friend took her to task, as it is called. 'Now, do you not see what a wicked little girl you are? Why do you not pray to God every morning to make you a better child?' 'And so I do,' sobbed the poor little thing, 'but he only makes me worserer and worserer.'"
