long and voluble narrative with his shrill Italian parody on an English cheer.
My mother rose the moment he had done, with flushed cheeks and brightened eyes. She caught the little man warmly by both hands.
“My dear, good Pesca,” she said, “I never doubted your true affection for Walter—but I am more than ever persuaded of it now!”
“I am sure we are very much obliged to Professor Pesca, for Walter’s sake,” added Sarah. She half rose, while she spoke, as if to approach the armchair, in her
unconscious of the irreparable wrong which the crockery had suffered at his hands, was dragging a large arm-chair to the opposite end of the room, so as to command us all three, in the character of a public speaker addressing an audience. Having turned the chair with its back towards us, he jumped into