Suppose our proper place is a shrine. Wood dandled his little charge to and fro, after the most approved nursery fashion, essaying at the same time the soothing influence of an infantine melody proper to the occasion; but, failing in his design, he soon lost all patience, and being, as we have before hinted, rather irritable, though extremely well-meaning, he lifted the unhappy bantling in the air, and shook him with so much good will, that he had well-nigh silenced him most effectually. “You’re so cute. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that.
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