does not eat it; only churns it all up between his fingers, becoming so absorbed in his occupation, that his voice is not heard for fully two minutes.
Little Lord St. John leaves his place, and goes round to look at the youngster, addressing it affectionately as "chucky, chucky, chucky!" whether under the mistaken notion that he is a species of young pig, I know not.
"Little angel!" murmurs Alice, gazing at her son.
"Pretty king!" says Milly, as her infant sneezes in her face.
"Never makes a sound," says Alice, kissing the top of her baby's golden head.
"Never cries at strangers," says Milly, rubbing her cheeks against her heir's primrose down.
I never knew until to-day how mothers drivel. Lord St. John ventures his face too near Alice's boy, and he puts out his plump, jelly-covered little fingers, and firmly grasps that gentleman's moustaches with a solemn and delighted countenance. The more the poor man tries to get away, the harder the baby holds on, and not until tears of pain stand in Lord St. John's eyes is he released. At the top of the table there is a sort of happy family show, that is calculated to fill all beholders with an insane desire to jump up and rush, all of us, to church and be married on the spot—the spectacle of connubial bliss is so beautiful. Fane looks at Milly, then at the baby; Milly looks at the baby, then at Fane. It is very touching, no doubt; but is it not rather public? Young Lovelace has struggled to the floor, and made friends with the dog. They are eating a biscuit between them. The dog takes a bit, then the baby does. It is very interesting, but rather dirty.
We go into the drawing-room, and stare at one another, and marvel, as everybody does every Sunday of their lives, what we are going to do with ourselves. If I were twenty years older I should
