Presently he startled us all by suddenly calling ‘Lucy’, in a voice that was as distinct as if it had come from a human throat, ‘Pretty Lucy–Lu–cy.’

‘That must have been the niece,’ said Aggie. ‘I expect she was the original of that picture over the chimney-piece in your room; she looks like a Lucy.’

It was a large framed half-length photograph of a very pretty girl, in a white dress, with gigantic open sleeves. The ancient parrot talked incessantly now that he had been restored to society; he whistled for the dogs, and brought them flying to his summons, to his great satisfaction and their equally great indignation. He called ‘Qui hye’ so naturally, in a lady’s shrill soprano, or a gruff male bellow, that I have no doubt our servants would have liked to have wrung his neck. He coughed and expectorated like an old gentleman, and whined like a puppy, and mewed like a cat, and I am sorry to add, sometimes swore like a trooper; but his most constant cry was, ‘Lucy, where are you, pretty Lucy–Lucy–Lu–cy?’