"
"And so did I. He was singing through his nose as bad as Deacon Piper,
because he had a worm in his mouth. He couldn't leave off gobbling one
single minute,--not even to practise his music."
"Let us go out," said Miss Dudley.
We did so. Paul's retreating back was all that was to be seen of the
boy, with Pet's peaceful chin pillowed upon his shoulder, as, borne off
in triumph, he looked calmly back at Lily, who stood shaking her small,
chiselled ivory finger at him. Rose was still beside her, with her arm
around her waist, as if in propitiation.
Two twelve-year-old twins, in twin blue gingham frocks,--they were much
addicted to blue and pink ginghams,--they had that indefinable look of
_blood_ which belonged to their kin, which is sometimes, to be sure, to
be found in families that have no great-grandfathers, after they have
been well-fed, well-read, and well-bred for a generation or two, but to
which they had an uncommonly good right, as their pedigree--so I
afterwards found--ran straight back to the Norman Conquest, without a
single "probably" in it. They were, for their age, tall and slender,
with yet more springy buoyancy than their aunt in _pose_ and movement.
Strangers were always mistaking them for each other.
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