XIV. BERT.

In the breakfast-room of a house on Mt. Vernon Street sat two persons with whom it is necessary that we should become acquainted.

The first is a gentleman of perhaps forty-five, rather stout, and with a pleasant expression of countenance. He has finished his cup of coffee, and taken up the morning paper,[126] which he scans carefully, more especially those parts relating to business.

At the opposite side of the table is a young lady of ten, with mirthful black eyes, and very red cheeks, which are well set off by her black hair. Altogether, she is very handsome, a fact of which she is not altogether unconscious. She is lively, fresh, original, and impulsive, not under very much restraint, but with an excellent disposition and kindly feelings, which do not allow her to go very far wrong. Yet it must be confessed that thus far her education has been sadly neglected, so that, as far as learning goes, she probably knows less than most girls two years younger.

The room, in which the father and daughter were seated, is tastefully furnished with that regard to comfort which is found in our American houses.

The two whom we have thus introduced are Benjamin Bowman, a wealthy merchant, and his daughter Bertha, though, in that shortening of names which is apt to take place in a family, hers has been shortened to Bert,[127] which she appears to prefer to the longer and more strictly feminine name.

"Papa," she said, pushing away her plate, "you ain't good company at all."

"Thank you for the compliment, Bert," he said.

"But you're not, though. There you are wearing out your eyes over that stupid paper, and leaving me to talk to myself or Topsy. Here, Topsy, isn't it so?"

At this summons a kitten, black as the ace of spades, and very much addicted to fun and frolic, jumped into the lap of her young mistress, and purred a noisy acquiescence.

"There," said Bert, triumphantly, "Topsy says I am right. I don't know what I should do without Topsy."

"She makes a very suitable companion for you, Bert," said Mr. Bowman, smiling.

"Why?" asked the cat's mistress, suspiciously.

"Because you can sympathize so well. Both are equally mischievous, and it is very difficult to tell which knows the most of books."

[128]

"Now, papa, that is a slander. I will sue you for libel."

"On your own account, or the kitten's?" asked Mr. Bowman. "I really don't know which I have done injustice to."

"Now you are laughing at me, papa. I know you are."

"Not entirely, Bert. The fact is, you are terribly ignorant for one of your age."

"I suppose I am," said Bert, shaking her head in comic despair.

"You'll grow up with no more knowledge than a Hottentot."

"Don't they have any schools among the Hottentots?"

"I suppose not."

"How delightful that must be! Why can't we move out where they live?"

"I don't know but we shall have to," said her father, "as, hereabouts, young ladies are expected to know something about books. But that reminds me I don't know but I shall succeed in engaging a governess for you to-day."

[129]

"A governess to-day!" exclaimed Bert, in dismay.

"Yes. I have made an appointment with a lady to call here at nine o'clock, and, if I am satisfied with her, I intend to engage her."

"And if I am satisfied with her," added Bert.

"Is that essential?" asked her father, smiling.

"Yes, for you know she will be with me most of the time. If she is like Julia Campbell's governess, I sha'n't like her."

"Well, and what fault do you find with Julia Campbell's governess?" asked Mr. Bowman, with more interest than his tone conveyed; for he knew that if Bert did not fancy her governess she would be a most incorrigible little rebel, and would be likely to profit very little by her instructions.

"Oh, she's as disagreeable as she can be. In the first place, she's an old maid,—not that that's so very bad. In fact, I've about made up my mind to be an old maid myself."

[130]

"Indeed!" said Mr. Bowman, amused. "May I inquire your reasons?"

"Too numerous to mention."

"Perhaps one is, that you don't expect to have any chance to change your name."

"I have had a chance already," said Bert, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Had a chance already!" exclaimed her father, in amazement.

"Yes," said the young lady of ten, "Charlie Morrill offered himself the other day, and I refused him."

"What is the world coming to?" thought Mr. Bowman. "Why did you refuse him?"

"Because," said Bert, soberly, "I don't like the way he parts his hair. But as for Julia's governess, I know she never had an offer. She's as homely as—as—well, I don't know who. Then she wears glasses, and has a nose ever so long, and a long face, and she never smiles, and she makes Julia study terrible hard."

And Bert drew a long breath.

"Not a very charming picture, certainly," said Mr. Bowman; "but I'll promise you that,[131] if the lady who applies for the post of governess to-day should be anything like this, I won't engage her."

"That's right, papa. When do you expect her?"

"Let me see. She was to be here at nine, and now it wants only ten minutes of that time."

"And you won't send me out of the room, papa, will you?"

Mr. Bowman hesitated.

"You know I am very anxious to see how she looks. If I like her, I will make a sign to you, and then you can engage her."

"What sign will you make, Bert?" asked her father, amused, and yet alive to the necessity of securing his daughter's acquiescence in his choice.

"I don't know," said Bert, reflecting; "suppose I wink."

"And suppose the lady should see you winking at me? What do you suppose she would think?"

"Oh, I could tell her afterwards, you[132] know, and she would feel flattered, knowing it was a sign that I liked her."

"She might not think it very lady-like in you."

"What's the use of being lady-like? I don't want to be. There's Florence Gates; I suppose she's lady-like. I'll show you how she walks."

Bert imitated the gait of the young lady, swaying herself from side to side, as she walked with mincing step, tossing her head, and exhibiting a caricature of the airs and affectations which girls sometimes delight to display.

"Why, she wouldn't run for a thousand dollars," exclaimed Bert. "She would think it beneath her dignity. If she is lady-like, I don't want to be. But, hark! there goes the bell. She's coming. Now, papa, just remember, I shall wink if I like her, and if I don't I'll make up a face."

Bert transferred herself to an ottoman, and took Topsy into her lap.

Both she and her father looked towards the door with curiosity.