"Gracious!"

The word that escaped my lips, I shrink from placing upon the printed page. A barrel of flour, one of sugar, another of corned beef, and a half-barrel of molasses, a box of candles, a can of kerosene oil, some cases of canned fruits, a box of laundry soap, three wash-tubs, and a firkin of butter—all these, and many other packages, covered the parlor floor, and sent up a smell suggestive of an unventilated grocery. The flour had sifted between the staves of the barrel, the molasses had dripped somewhat, the box of soap had broken open and a single bar had been fastened to the carpet by the seal of a boot-heel of heroic size. Sophronia stepped into little pools of molasses, and the effect seemed to be that the carpet rose to bestow sweet clinging kisses upon the dainty feet of the loveliest of her sex.

"Horrible!" ejaculated Sophronia.

"And here come the trucks," said I, looking out of the window, "and the one with the parlor furniture is in front."

Fortunately, the truckmen were good-tempered and amenable to reason, expressed by means of currency; so we soon had the provisions moved into the kitchen. Then the senior truckman kindly consented to dispose of an old tarpaulin, at about twice the price of a piece of velvet carpet of similar size, and this we spread upon the parlor floor while the furniture should be brought in. Sophronia assumed the direction of proceedings, but it soon became evident that she was troubled.

"The room, evidently, was not arranged for this furniture," said she.

And she spoke truthfully. We had purchased a lounge, a large centre-table, an etagere, a Turkish chair, two reception chairs, four chairs to match the lounge, a rocker or two, an elegant firescreen, and several other articles of furniture, and there was considerable difficulty experienced, not only in arranging them, but in getting them into the parlor at all. Finally, the senior truckman spoke:



"The only way to git everythin' in, is to fix 'em the way we do at the store—set 'em close together."

He spoke truly; and Sophronia, with a sigh, assented to such an arrangement, suggesting that we could rearrange the furniture afterward, and stipulating only that the lounge should be placed in the front of the room. This done, there were three-and-a-half feet of space between the front of the lounge and the inside of the window-casings.

We can, at least, sit upon it and lose our souls in the dying glories of the sun upon the eternal hills, and—"Gracious, Pierre, where's the piano to go?"

Sure enough; and the piano was already at the door. The senior truckman cast his professional eye at the vacant space, and spoke:

"You can put it right there," said he. "There won't be no room fur the stool to go behind it; but if you put the key-board to the front, an' open the winder, you can stand outdoors an' play."

Sophronia eyed the senior truckman suspiciously for a moment, but not one of his honest facial muscles moved, so Sophronia exclaimed:

"True. And how romantic!"

While the piano was being placed I became conscious of some shocking language being used on the stairway. Looking out I saw two truckmen and the headboard of our new bedstead inextricably mixed on the stairs.

"Why don't you go on?" I asked.

The look which one of the truckmen gave me I shall not Forget until my dying day; the man's companion remarked that when (qualified) fools bought furniture for such (doubly qualified) houses, they ought to have brains enough to get things small enough to get up the (trebly qualified) stairs.

I could not deny the logic of this statement, impious as were the qualifying adjectives which were used thereupon. But something had to be done; we could not put the bedstead together upon the stairway and sleep upon it there, even were there not other articles of furniture imperatively demanding a right of way.

"Try to get it down again," said I.

They tried, and, after one mighty effort, succeeded; they also brought down several square yards of ceiling plaster and the entire handrail of the stair.

"Think the ceilings of these rooms is high enough to let that bed stand up?" asked the senior truckman.

I hastily measured the height of the ceilings, and then of the bedstead, and found the latter nearly eighteen inches too high. Then I called Sophronia: the bedstead was of her selection, and was an elegant sample of fine woods and excessive ornamentation. It was a precious bit of furniture, but time was precious, too. The senior truckman suggested that the height of the bedstead might be reduced about two feet by the removal of the most lofty ornament, and that a healthy man could knock it off with his fist.

"Let it be done," said Sophronia. "What matter? A king discrowned is still a king at heart."

The senior truckman aimed a deadly blow with a cart-rung, and the bedstead filled its appointed place. The remaining furniture followed as fast as could be expected; we soon gave up the idea of getting it all into the house; but the woodhouse was spacious and easy of access, so we stowed there important portions of three chamber sets, a gem of a sideboard, the Turkish chair, which had been ordered for the parlor, and the hat-rack, which the hall was too small to hold. We also deposited in the woodhouse all the pictures, in their original packages.

At length the trucks were emptied; the senior truckman smiled sweetly as I passed a small fee into his hand then he looked thoughtfully at the roof of the cottage, and remarked:

"It's none of my business, I know; but I hate to see nice things spiled. I'd watch that roof, ef I was you, the fust time it rained."

I thanked him; he drove off; I turned and accepted the invitation which was presented by Sophronia's outstretched arms.

"Oh, Pierre!" she exclaimed; "at last we are in our own home! No uncongenial spirits about us—no one to molest or annoy—no unsympathetic souls to stifle our ardent passion for Nature and the work of her free, divine hands."

A frowsy head suddenly appeared at the dining-room door, and a voice which accompanied it remarked:

"Didn't they bring in any stove, ma'am?"

Sophronia looked inquiringly at me, and I answered:

"No!" looking very blank at the same time.

"Then how am I to make a fire to cook with?" asked the girl.

"In the range, of course," said Sophronia.

Our domestic's next remark had, at least, the effect of teaching what was her nationality:

"An' do ye think that I'd ax fur a sthove av dhere was a range in the house? Dhivil a bit!"

"Never mind, dear," said I soothingly; "I'm an old soldier; I'll make a fire out of doors, and give you as nice a cup of tea and plate of hot biscuit as you ever tasted. And I'll order a stove the first thing in the morning."

Sophronia consented, and our domestic was appeased. Then I asked the domestic to get some water while I should make the fire. The honest daughter of toil was absent for many moments, and when she returned, it was to report, with some excitement, that there was neither well nor cistern on the premises.

Then I grew angry, and remarked, in Sophronia's hearing, that we were a couple of fools, to take a house without first proving whether the agent had told the truth. But Sophronia, who is a consistent optimist, rebuked me for my want of faith in the agent.

"Pierre," said she, "it is unmanly to charge a fellow-man with falsehood upon the word of a menial. I know that agent tells the truth, for he has such liquid blue eyes; besides, his house is right next to the Presbyterian Church."

Either one of these powerful arguments was sufficient to silence me, of course; so I took the pail, and sought well and cistern myself. But if either was on the place, it was so skillfully secreted that I could not find the slightest outward evidence of it. Finally, to be thorough, I paced the garden from front to rear, over lines not more than ten feet apart, and then scrutinized the fence-corners.

While at this work, I was approached by a gentleman, who seemed to come from a house two or three hundred yards off.

"Moved into the cottage, it seems," said he.

"Yes," I replied. "Do you know the place? The agent said there was excellent water here, but I can't find it."

"He meant there was good water in my well, where all occupants of the cottage have drawn water for several years. The well belonging to your place was covered up when the road was cut through, a few years ago, and neighbor Hubbell—well, I don't say anything against him—neighbors must be neighborly, but folks do say he's too stingy to dig a new well. That's the reason the cottage hasn't been occupied much for the last few years. But everybody is welcome to draw from my well—come along."

I followed the kind-hearted man, but I wished that the liquid depth of the agent's blue eyes had a proper parallel upon the estate which he had imposed upon me. I returned as full of wrath as my pail was of water, when, across the fence, I saw Sophronia's face, so suffused with tender exaltation, that admiration speedily banished ill nature.

But it was for a brief moment only, for Sophronia's finely-cut lips parted and their owner exclaimed:

"Oh, Pierre! What a charming pastoral picture—you and the pail, and the lawn as a background! I wish we might always have to get water from our neighbor's, well."

We retired early, and in the delightful quiet of our rural retreat, with the moon streaming through our chamber window, Sophronia became poetic, and I grew too peaceful and happy even to harbor malice against the agent. The eastern sun found his way through the hemlocks to wake us in the morning, and the effect was so delightfully different from the rising bell of the boarding-house, that when Sophronia indulged in some freedom with certain of Whittier's lines, and exclaimed:

"Sad is the man who never sees The sun shine through his hemlock trees"

I appreciated her sentiment, and expressed my regard in a, loving kiss. Again I made a fire out of doors, boiled coffee, fried ham and eggs, made some biscuit, begged some milk of our neighbor, and then we had a delightful little breakfast. Then I started for the station.

"Don't forget the stove, dear," said Sophronia, as she gave me a parting kiss; "and be sure to send a butcher, and baker, and grocer, and—"

Just then our domestic appeared and remarked:

"Arah ye may as well get another girl; the likes ai me isn't goin' to bring wather from half-a-mile away."

Sophronia grew pale, but she lost not an atom of her saintly calmness; she only said, half to herself:

"Poor thing! she hasn't a bit of poetry in her soul."

When I returned in the evening, I found Sophronia in tears. The stove men had not quite completed their work, so Sophronia and her assistant had eaten nothing but dry bread since breakfast. The girl interrupted us to say that the stove was ready, but that she couldn't get either coal or wood, and would I just come and see why? I descended five of the cellar stairs, but the others were covered with water, and upon the watery expanse about me floated the wagon-load of wood I had purchased. The coal heap, under a window fifteen feet away, loomed up like a rugged crag of basaltic rock. I took soundings with a stick and found the water was rather more than two feet deep. Fortunately, there were among my war relics a pair of boots as long as the legs of their owner, so I drew these on and descended the stairs with shovel and coal scuttle. The boots had not been oiled in ten years, so they found accommodation for several quarts of water. As I strode angrily into the kitchen and set the scuttle down with a suddenness which shook the floor, Sophronia clapped her hands in ecstasy.

"Pierre," she exclaimed, "you look like the picture of the sturdy retainers of the old English barons. O, I do hope that water won't go away very soon. The rattling of the water in your boots makes your step so impressive."

I found that in spite of the hunger from which she had suffered, Sophronia had not been idle during the day. She had coaxed the baker's man to open the cases of pictures, and she and the domestic had carried each picture to the room in which it was to hang. The highest ceiling in the house was six and a half feet from the floor, whereas our smallest picture measured three feet and a half in height. But Sophronia's art-loving soul was not to be daunted; the pictures being too large to hang, she had leaned them against the walls.

"It's such an original idea," said she; "and then, too, it gives each picture such an unusual effect—don't you think so?"

I certainly did.

We spent the evening in trying to make our rooms look less like furniture warehouses, but succeeded only partly. We agreed, too, that we could find something for painters and kalsominers to do, for the ceilings and walls were blotched and streaked so much that our pretty furniture and carpets only made the plastering look more dingy. But when again we retired, and our lights were put, and only soft moonbeams relieved the darkness, our satisfaction with our new house filled us with pleasant dreams, which we exchanged before sleeping. After falling asleep, I dreamed of hearing a wonderful symphony performed by an unseen orchestra; it seemed as if Liszt might have composed it, and as if the score was particularly strong in trombones and drums. Then the scene changed, and I was on a ship in a storm at sea; the gale was blowing my hair about, and huge rain-drops occasionally struck my face. Sophronia was by my side; but, instead of glorying with me in meeting the storm-king in his home, she complained bitterly of the rain. The unaccountable absence of her constitutional romanticism provoked me, and I remonstrated so earnestly, that the effort roused me to wakefulness. But Sophronia's complaining continued. I had scarcely realized that I was in a cottage chamber instead of on a ship's deck, when Sophronia exclaimed:

"Pierre, I wonder if a shower-bath hasn't been arranged just where our bed stands? because drops of water are falling in my face once in a while. They are lovely and cool, but they trickle off on the pillow, and that don't feel nice."

I lit a candle, and examined the ceiling; directly over Sophronia's head there was a heavy blotch, from the centre of which the water was dropping.

"Another result of taking that liquid blue-eyed agent's word," I growled, hastily moving the bed and its occupant, and setting the basin on the floor to catch the water and save the carpet.

"Why, Pierre!" exclaimed Sophronia, as I blew out the light, "how unjust you are. Who could expect an agent to go over the roof like a cat, and examine each shingle? Gracious! it's dropping here, too!"

Again I lighted the candle and moved the bed, but before I had time to retire Sophronia complained that a stream was trickling down upon her feet. The third time the bed was moved water dropped down upon my pillow, and the room was too small to re-locate the bed so that none of these unauthorized hydrants should moisten us. Then we tried our spare chamber, but that was equally damp.

Suddenly I bethought myself of another war relic; and, hurrying to an old trunk, extracted an india-rubber blanket. This, if we kept very close together, kept the water out, but almost smothered us. We changed our positions by sitting up, back to back, and dropping the rubber blanket over our heads. By this arrangement the air was allowed to circulate freely, and we had some possibilities of conversation left us; but the effect of the weight of the blanket resting largely upon our respective noses was somewhat depressing. Suddenly Sophronia remarked:

"Oh, Pierre! this reminds me of those stories you used to tell me, of how you and all your earthly treasures used to hide under this blanket from the rain!"

The remark afforded an opportunity for a very graceful reply, but four hours elapsed before I saw it. Sophronia did not seem hurt by my negligence, but almost instantly continued:

"It would be just like war, if there was only some shooting going on. Can't you fire your revolver out of the window, Pierre?"

"I could," I replied, "if that blue-eyed agent was anywhere within range."

"Why, Pierre, I think you're dreadfully unjust to that poor man. He can't go sleeping around in all the rooms of each of his cottages every time there's a rainstorm, to see if they leak. Besides—oh, Pierre! I've a brilliant idea! It can't be wet down-stairs."

True. I was so engrossed by different plans of revenge, that I had not thought of going into the parlor or dining-room to sleep. We moved to the parlor; Sophronia took the lounge, while I found the floor a little harder than I supposed an ex-soldier could ever find any plane surface. It did not take me long, however, to learn that the parlor-floor was not a plane surface. It contained a great many small elevations which kept me awake for the remainder of the night, wondering what they could be. At early dawn I was as far from a satisfactory theory as ever, and I hastily loosened one end of the carpet and looked under. The protuberances were knots in the flooring boards. In the days when the sturdy patriots of New Jersey despised such monarchical luxuries as carpets, the soft portions of these boards had been slowly worn away, but the knots—every one has heard the expression "as tough as a pine knot." Fortunately, we had indulged in a frightfully expensive rug, and upon this I sought and found a brief period of repose and forgetfulness.

While we were at the breakfast-table our girl appeared, with red eyes and a hoarse voice, and remarked that now she must leave; she had learned to like us, and she loved the country, but she had an aged parent whose sole support she was, and could not afford to risk her life in such a house.

"Let her go," said Sophronia. "If variety is the spice of life, why shouldn't the rule apply to servants?"

"Perhaps it does, my dear," I replied; "but if we have to pay each girl a month's wages for two or three days of work, the spice will be more costly than enjoyable—eh?"

Immediately after breakfast I sought the agent. I supposed he would meet me with downcast eyes and averted head, but he did nothing of the kind; he extended his hand cordially, and said he was delighted to see me.

"That roof," said I, getting promptly to business, "leaks—well, it's simply a sieve. And you told me the house was dry."

"So the owner told me, sir; of course you can't expect us to inspect the hundreds of houses we handle in a year."

"Well, however that may be, the owner is mistaken, and he must repair the roof at once."

The agent looked thoughtful. "If you had wished the landlord to make necessary repairs, you should have so stipulated in the lease. The lease you have signed provides that all repairs shall be made at your own expense."

"Did the landlord draw up the lease?" I asked, fixing my eye severely upon the agent's liquid orbs. But the agent met my gaze with defiance and an expression of injured dignity.

"I asked you whether you would have the usual form of lease," said the agent, "and you replied, 'Certainly.'"

I abruptly left the agent's presence, went to a lumber yard near by, and asked where I could find the best carpenter in town. He happened to be on the ground purchasing some lumber, and to him I made known my troubles, and begged him to hasten to my relief. The carpenter was a man of great decision of character, and he replied promptly, ciphering on a card in the meantime:

"No you don't. Every carpenter in town has tried his hand on that roof, and made it worse than before. The only way to make it tight is to re-shingle it all over. That'll cost you $67.50, unless the scantling is too rotten to hold the nails, in which case the job'll cost you $18.75 more. I guess the rafters are strong enough to hold together a year or two longer."

I made some excuse to escape the carpenter and his dreadful figures, and he graciously accepted it; doubtless the perfect method in which he did it was the result of frequent interviews with other wretched beings who had leased the miserable house which I had taken into my confidence. I determined to plead with the landlord, whose name I knew, and I asked a chance acquaintance on the train if he knew where I could find the proprietor of my house.

"Certainly," said he; "there he is in the opposite seat but one, reading a religious weekly."

I looked; my heart sank within me, and my body sank into a seat. A cold-eyed, hatchet-faced man, from whom not even the most eloquent beggar could hope to coax a penny. Of what use would it be to try to persuade him to spend sixty-seven dollars and fifty cents on something which I had agreed to take care of. Something had to be done, however, so I wasted most of the day in consulting New York roofers. The conclusion of the whole matter was that I spent about thirty dollars for condemned "flies" from "hospital" tents, and had these drawn tightly over the roof. When this was done the appearance of the house was such that I longed for an incendiary who would compel me to seek a new residence; but when Sophronia gazed upon the roof she clapped her hands joyfully, and exclaimed:

"Pierre, it will be almost as nice as living in a tent, to have one on the roof; it looks just the same, you know, until your eyes get down to the edge of it."

There was at least one comfort in living at Villa Valley: the people were very intelligent and sociable, and we soon made many pleasant acquaintances. But they all had something dreadful to suggest about our house. A doctor, who was a remarkably fine fellow, said he would be glad of my patronage, and didn't doubt that he would soon have it, unless I had the cellar pumped out at once. Then Mrs. Blathe, the leader of society in the village, told my wife how a couple who once lived in our cottage always had chills, though no one else at Villa Valley had the remotest idea of what a chill was. The several coal dealers in the village competed in the most lively manner for our custom, and when I mentioned the matter, in some surprise, to my grocer, he remarked that they knew what houses needed most coal to keep them warm the year through, and worked for custom accordingly. A deacon, who was sociable but solemn, remarked that some of his most sweetly mournful associations clustered about our cottage—he had followed several of its occupants to their long homes.

And yet, as the season advanced, and the air was too dry to admit of dampness anywhere, and the Summer breezes blew in the windows and doors whole clouds of perfume from the rank thickets of old-fashioned roses which stood about the garden, we became sincerely attached to the little cottage. Then heavy masses of honeysuckles and vines which were trained against the house, grew dense and picturesque with foliage, and Sophronia would enjoy hours of perfect ecstasy, sitting in an easy-chair under the evergreens and gazing at the graceful outlines of the house and its verdant ornaments.

But the cellar was obdurate. It was pumped dry several times, but no pump could reach the inequalities in its floor, and in August there came a crowd of mosquitoes from the water in these small holes. They covered the ceilings and walls, they sat in every chair, they sang accompaniments to all of Sophronia's songs, they breakfasted, dined, and supped with us and upon us. Sophronia began to resemble a person in the first stages of varioloid, yet that incomparable woman would sit between sunset and dusk, looking, through nearly closed eyes, at the walls and ceiling, and would remark:

"Pierre, when you look at the walls in this way, the mosquitoes give them the effect of being papered with some of that exquisite new Japanese wall-paper, with its quaint spots; don't you think so?"

Finally September came, and with it the equinoctial storm. We lay in bed one night, the wind howling about us, and Sophronia rhapsodising, through the medium of Longfellow's lines, about

"The storm-wind of the Equinox,"

when we heard a terrific crash, and then the sound of a falling body which shook the whole house. Sophronia clasped me wildly and began to pray; but I speedily disengaged myself, lighted a candle, and sought the cause of our disturbance. I found it upon the hall-floor: it was the front-door and its entire casing, both of which, with considerable plaster, lathing, and rotten wood, had been torn from its place by the fury of the storm.

In the morning I sought a printer, with a small but strong manuscript which I had spent the small hours of the night in preparing. It bore this title, "The House I Live In." The printer gave me the proof the same day, and I showed it to the owner of the house the same evening, remarking that I should mail a copy to every resident of Villa Valley, and have one deposited in every Post Office box in New York City. The owner offered to cancel my lease if I would give up my unkind intention, and I consented. Then we hired a new cottage (not from the agent with the liquid blue eyes), and, before accepting it, I examined it as if it were to be my residence to all eternity. Yet when all our household goods were removed, and Sophronia and I took our final departure, the gentle mistress of my home turned regretfully, burst into tears, and sobbed:

"Oh, Pierre! in spite of everything, it is a love of a cottage."



THE BLEIGHTON RIVALS.

The village of Bleighton contained as many affectionate young people as any other place of its size, and was not without young ladies, for the possession of whose hearts two or more young men strove against each other. When, however, allusion was ever made to "the rivals" no one doubted to whom the reference applied: it was always understood that the young men mentioned were those two of Miss Florence Elserly's admirers for whom Miss Elserly herself seemed to have more regard than she manifested toward any one else.

There has always been some disagreement among the young ladies of Bleighton as to Miss Elserly's exact rank among beauties, but there was no possibility of doubt that Miss Elserly attracted more attention than any other lady in the town, and that among her admirers had been every young man among whom other Bleighton ladies of taste would have chosen their life-partners had the power of choosing pertained to their own sex.

The good young men of the village, the successful business men who were bachelors, and the stylish young fellows who came from the neighboring city in the Summer, bowed before Miss Elserly as naturally as if fate, embodied in the person of the lady herself, commanded them.

How many proposals Miss Elserly had received no one knew; for two or three years no one was able to substantiate an opinion, from the young lady's walk and conversation, that she specially preferred any one of her personal acquaintances; but at length it became evident that she evinced more than the interest of mere acquaintanceship in Hubert Brown, the best of the native-born young men of the village.

Mr. Brown was a theological student, but the march of civilization had been such at Bleighton that a prospective shepherd of souls might listen to one of Beethoven's symphonies in a city opera-house without having any sin imputed unto him! Such music-loving inhabitants of Bleighton as listened to one of these symphonies, which was also heard by Mr. Brown and Miss Elserly, noticed that when the young couple exchanged words and glances, Miss Elserly's well-trained features were not so carefully guarded as they usually were in society. Such ladies as had nothing to do, and even a few who were not without pressing demands upon their time, canvassed the probabilities of the match quite exhaustively, and made some prophecies, but were soon confused by the undoubted fact that Miss Elserly drove out a great deal with Major Mailing, the dashing ex-soldier, and successful broker from the city.

The charm of uncertainty being thus added to the ordinary features of interest which pertain to all persons suspected of being in love, made Miss Elserly's affairs of unusual importance to every one who knew the young lady even by sight, and for three whole months "the rivals" were a subject of conversation next in order to the weather. At length there came a day when the case seemed decided. For three days Hubert Brown's face was very seldom seen on the street, and when seen it was longer and more solemn than was required even by that order of sanctity in which theological students desire to live.

Then it was noticed that while Miss Elserly's beauty grew no less in degree, it changed in kind; that she was more than ever seen in the society of the handsome broker, and that the broker's attentions were assiduous. Then it was suspected that Mr. Brown had proposed and been rejected. Ladies who owed calls to Mr. Brown's mother, made haste to pay them, and, as rewards of merit, brought away confirmation of the report. Then, before the gossips had reported the probable engagement of Miss Elserly to Major Mailing, the lady and major made the announcement themselves to their intimate friends, and the news quickly reached every one who cared to hear it.

A few weeks later, however, there circulated very rapidly a story whose foreshadowing could not have been justly expected of the village gossips. The major absented himself for a day or two from his boarding-house, and at a time, too, when numerous gentlemen from the city came to call upon him.

Some of these callers returned hurriedly to the city, evincing by words and looks the liveliest disappointment, while two of them, after considerable private conversation with the proprietress of the house, and after displaying some papers, in the presence of a local justice of the peace, to whom the good old lady sent in her perplexity, took possession of the major's room and made quite free with the ex-warrior's cigars, liquors, and private papers.

Then the city newspapers told how Mr. Malling, a broker of excellent ability and reputation, as well as one of the most gallant of his country's defenders in her hour of need, had been unable to meet his engagements, and had also failed to restore on demand fifteen thousand dollars in United States bonds which had been intrusted to him for safe-keeping. A warrant had been issued for Mr. Malling's arrest; but at last accounts the officers had been unable to find him.

Miss Elserly immediately went into the closest retirement, and even girls whom she had robbed of prospective beaus felt sorry for her. People began to suggest that there might have been a chance for Brown, after all, if he had staid at home, instead of rushing off to the West to play missionary. He owned more property in his own right than the major had misplaced for other people; and though some doubts were expressed as to Miss Elserly's fitness for the position of a minister's wife, the matter was no less interesting as a subject for conversation. The excellence of the chance which both Brown and Miss Elserly had lost seemed even greater when it became noised abroad that Brown had written to some real estate agents in the village that, as he might want to go into business in the West, to sell for him, for cash, a valuable farm which his father had left him. As for the business which Mr. Brown proposed entering, the reader may form his own opinions from a little conversation hereinafter recorded.

As Hubert Brown, trying to drown thought and do good, was wandering through a Colorado town one evening, he found himself face to face with Major Mailing. The major looked seedy, and some years older than he did a month before, but his pluck was unchanged. Seeing that an interview could not be avoided, he assumed an independent air, and exclaimed:

"Why, Brown, what did you do that you had to come West?"

"Nothing," said the student, flushing a little—"except be useless."

"I thought," said the major, quickly, with a desperate but sickly attempt at pleasantry, "that you had gone in for Florence again; she's worth all your 'lost sheep of the house of Israel.'"

"I don't make love to women who love other men," replied Brown.

"Don't, please, Brown," said the major, turning manly in a moment. "I feel worse about her than about all my creditors or those infernal bonds. I got into the snarl before I knew her; that's the only way I can quiet my conscience. Of course the—matter is all up now. I wrote her as good an apology as I could, and a release; she'd have taken the latter without my giving it, but—"

"No she wouldn't," interrupted the student.

"How do you know?" demanded the major, with a suspicious glance, which did not escape Brown. "Did you torment her by proposing again upon the top of her other troubles?"

"No," said Brown; "don't be insulting. But I know that she keeps herself secluded, and that her looks and spirits are dreadfully changed. If she cared nothing for you, she knows society would cheerfully forgive her if she were to show it."

"I wish to Satan that I hadn't met you, then," said the major. "I've taken solid comfort in the thought that most likely she was again the adored of all adorers, and was forgetting me, as she has so good a right to do."

"Major," said Brown, bringing his hand down on the major's shoulder in a manner suggestive of a deputy sheriff, "you ought to go back to that girl!"

"And fail," suggested the major. "Thank you; and allow me to say you're a devilish queer fellow for suggesting it. Is it part of your religion to forgive a successful rival?"

"It's part of my religion, when I love, to love the woman more than I love myself," said Brown, with a face in which pain and earnestness strove for the mastery. "She loves you. I loved her, and want to see her happy."

The defaulter grasped the student's hand.

"Brown," said he, "you're one of God's noblemen; she told me so once, but I didn't imagine then that I'd ever own up to it myself. It can't be done, though; she can't marry a man in disgrace—I can't ask a woman to marry me on nothing; and, besides, there's the matter of those infernal bonds. I can't clear that up, and keep out of the sheriff's fingers."

"I can," said Brown.

"How?" asked the ex-broker, with staring eyes.

"I'll lend the money."

The major dropped Brown's hand.

"You heavenly lunatic!" said he. "I always did think religion made fools of men when they got too much of it. Then I could go back on the Street again; the boys would be glad to see me clear myself—not meeting my engagements wouldn't be remembered against me. But, say—borrow money from an old rival to make myself right with the girl he loved! No, excuse me. I've got some sense of honor left!"

"You mean you love yourself more than you do her," suggested Brown. "I'll telegraph about the money, and you write her in the meantime. Don't ruin her happiness for life by delay or trifling."

The major became a business man again.

"Brown," said he, "I'll take your offer; and, whatever comes of it, you'll have one friend you can swear to as long as I live. You haven't the money with you?"

"No," said Brown; "but you shall have it in a fortnight. I'll telegraph about it, and go East and settle the business for you, so you can come back without fear."

"You're a trump; but—don't think hard of me—money's never certain till you have it in hand. I'll write and send my letter East by you; when the matter's absolutely settled, you can telegraph me, and mail her my letter. I'd expect to be shot if I made such a proposal to any other rival, but you're not a man—you're a saint. Confound you, all the sermons I ever heard hadn't as much real goodness in them as I've heard the last ten minutes! But 'twould be awful for me to write and then have the thing slip up!"

Brown admitted the justice of the major's plan, and took the major to his own hotel to keep him from bad company.

During the whole evening the major talked about business: but when, after a night of sound sleep, the student awoke, he found the major pacing his room with a very pale face, and heard him declare that he had not slept a wink.

Brown pitied the major in his nervous condition and did what he could to alleviate it. He talked to him of Florence Elserly, of whom he seemed never to tire of talking; he spoke to him of his own work and hopes. He tried to picture to the major the happy future which was awaiting him but still the major was unquiet and absent-minded. Brown called in a physician, to whom he said his friend was suffering from severe mental depression, brought on by causes now removed; but the doctor's prescriptions failed to have any effect. Finally, when Brown was to start for the East the major, paler and thinner than ever, handed him a letter addressed to Miss Elserly.

"Brown," said the major, "I believe you won't lose any money by your goodness. I can make money when I am not reckless, and I'll make it my duty to be careful until you are paid. The rest I can't pay, but I'm going to try to be as good a man as you are. That's the sort of compensation that'll please such an unearthly fellow best, I guess."

When Hubert Brown reached Bleighton, he closed with the best offer that had been made for his farm, though the offer itself was one which made the natives declare that Hubert Brown had taken leave of his senses. Then he settled with the loser of the bonds, saw one or two of the major's business acquaintances, and prepared the way for the major's return; then he telegraphed the major himself. Lastly, he dressed himself with care and called upon Miss Elserly. Before sending up his card, he penciled upon it "avec nouvelles a lire," which words the servant scanned with burning curiosity, but of which she could remember but one, when she tried to repeat them to the grocer's young man, and this one she pronounced "arick," as was natural enough in a lady of her nationality. This much of the message was speedily circulated through the town, and caused at least one curious person to journey to a great library in the city in quest of a Celtic dictionary. As for the recipient of the card, she met her old lover with a face made more than beautiful by the conflicting emotions which manifested themselves in it. The interview was short. Mr. Brown said he had accidentally met the major and had successfully acted as his agent in relieving him from his embarrassments. He had the pleasure of delivering a letter from the major, and hoped it might make Miss Elserly as happy to receive it as it made him to present it. Miss Elserly expressed her thanks, and then Mr. Brown said:



"Pardon a bit of egotism and reference to an unpleasant subject, Miss Elserly, Once I told you that I loved you; in this matter of the major's, I have been prompted solely by a sincere desire for your happiness; and by acting in this spirit I have entirely taken the pain out of my old wound. Mayn't I, therefore, as the major's most sincere well-wisher, enjoy once more your friendship?"

Miss Elserly smiled sweetly, and extended her hand, and Hubert Brown went home a very happy man. Yet, when he called again, several evenings later, he was not as happy as he had hoped to be in Miss Elserly's society, for the lady herself, though courteous and cordial, seemed somewhat embarrassed and distrait, and interrupted the young man on several occasions when he spoke in commendation of some good quality of the major's. Again he called, and again the same strange embarrassment, though less in degree, manifested itself. Finally, it disappeared altogether, and Miss Elserly began to recover her health and spirits. Even then she did not exhibit as tender an interest in the major as the student had hoped she would do; but, as the major's truest friend, he continued to sound his praises, and to pay Miss Elserly, in the major's stead, every kind of attention he could devise.

Finally he learned that the major was in the city, and he hastened to inform Miss Elserly, lest, perhaps, she had not heard so soon. The lady received the announcement with an exquisite blush and downcast eyes, though she admitted that the major had himself apprised her of his safe arrival. On this particular evening the lady seemed to Mr. Brown to be personally more charming than ever; yet, on the other hand, the old embarrassment was so painfully evident that Mr. Brown made an early departure. Arrived at home he found a letter from the major which read as follows:

"MY DEAR OLD FELLOW.—From the day on which I met you in Colorado I've been trying to live after your pattern; how I succeeded on the third day, you may guess from inclosed, which is a copy of a letter I sent to Florence by you. I've only just got her permission to send it to you, though I've teased her once a week on the subject. God bless you, old fellow. Don't worry on my account, for I'm really happy. Yours truly,

"MALLING."

With wondering eyes Hubert Brown read the inclosure, which read as follows:

"Miss ELSERLY—Three days ago, while a fugitive from justice, yet honestly loving you more than I ever loved any other being, I met Hubert Brown. He has cared for me as if I was his dearest friend; he is going to make good my financial deficiencies, and restore me to respectability. He cannot have done this out of love for me, for he knows nothing of me but that which should make him hate me, on both personal and moral grounds. He says he did it because he loved you, and because he wants to see you happy. Miss Elserly, such love cannot be a thing of the past only, and it is so great that in comparison with it the best love that I have ever given you seems beneath your notice. He is begging me to go back for your sake; he is constantly talking to me about you in a tone and with a look that shows how strong is the feeling he is sacrificing, out of sincere regard for you. Miss Elserly, I never imagined the angels loving as purely and strongly as he does. He tells me you still retain some regard for me; the mere thought is so great a comfort that I cannot bear to reason seriously about it; yet, if any such feelings exist, I must earnestly beg of you, out of the sincere and faithful affection I have had for you, to give up all thought of me for ever, and give yourself entirely to that most incomparable lover, Hubert Brown.

"Forgive my intrusion and advice. I give it because the remembrance of our late relations will assure you of the honesty and earnestness of my meaning. I excuse myself by the thought that to try to put into such noble keeping the dearest treasure that I ever possessed, is a duty which justifies my departure from any conventional rule. I am, Miss Elserly, as ever, your worshiper. More than this I cannot dare to think of being, after my own fall and the overpowering sense I have of the superior worth of another. God bless you.

"ANDREW MALLING."

Mr. Brown hastily laid the letter aside, and again called upon Miss Elserly.

Again she met him with many signs of the embarrassment whose cause he now understood so well; yet as he was about to deliver an awkward apology a single look from under Miss Elserly's eyebrows—only a glance, but as searching and eloquent as it was swift—stopped his tongue. He took Miss Elserly's hand in his own and stammered:

"I came to plead for the major."

"And I shan't listen to you," said she, raising her eyes with so tender a light in them that Hubert Brown immediately hid the eyes themselves in his heart, lest the light should be lost.



BUDGE AND TODDIE AT AUNT ALICE'S.

[The following is quoted, by permission, from Mr. Habberton's popular book, "OTHER PEOPLE'S CHILDREN," published by G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York.]

Mrs. Burton's birthday dawned brightly, and it is not surprising that, as it was her first natal anniversary since her marriage to a man who had no intention or ability to cease being a lover—it is not surprising that her ante-breakfast moments were too fully and happily occupied to allow her to even think of two little boys who had already impressed upon her their willingness and general ability to think for themselves. As for the young men themselves, they awoke with the lark, and with a heavy sense of responsibility also. The room of Mrs. Burton's chambermaid joined their own, and the occupant of that room having been charged by her mistress with the general care of the boys between dark and daylight, she had gradually lost that faculty for profound slumber which so notably distinguishes the domestic servant from all other human beings. She had grown accustomed to wake at the first sound in the boys' room, and on the morning of her mistress's birthday the first sound she heard was: "Tod!"

No response could be heard; but a moment later the chambermaid heard:

"T—o—o—od!"

"Ah—h—h—ow!" drawled a voice, not so sleepily but it could sound aggrieved.

"Wake up, dear old Toddie, budder—it's Aunt Alice's birthday now."

"Needn't bweak my earzh open, if 'tis, whined Toddie."

"I only holloed in one ear, Tod," remonstrated Budge "an' you ought to love dear Aunt Alice enough to have that hurt a little rather than not wake up."

A series of groans, snarls, whines, grunts, snorts, and remonstrances semi-articulate were heard, and at length some complicated wriggles and convulsive kicks were made manifest to the listening ear, and then Budge said:

"That's right; now let's get up an' get ready. Say; do you know that we didn't think anything about having some music. Don't you remember how papa played the piano last mamma's birthday when she came down stairs, an' how happy it made her, an' we danced around?"

"Aw wight," said Toddie. "Let's."

"Tell you what," said Budge, "let's both bang the piano, like mamma an' Aunt Alice does together sometimes."

"Oh, yesh!" exclaimed Toddie. "We can make some awful big bangsh before she can get down to tell us to don't."

Then there was heard a scurrying of light feet as the boys picked up their various articles of clothing from the corners, chairs, bureau, table, etc., where they had been tossed the night before. The chambermaid hurried to their assistance, and both boys were soon dressed. A plate containing bananas, and another with the hard-earned grapes, were on the bureau, and the boys took them and tiptoed down the stair and into the drawing-room.

"Gwacious!" said Toddie, as he placed his plate on the sideboard, "maybe the gwapes an' buttonanoes has got sour. I guesh we'd better try 'em, like mamma does the milk on hot morningsh when the baddy milkman don't come time enough," and Toddie suited the action to the word by plucking from a cluster the handsomest grape in sight. "I fink," said he, smacking his lips with the suspicious air of a professional wine-taster; "I fink they is gettin' sour." "Let's see," said Budge.

"No," said Toddie, plucking another grape with one hand while with the other he endeavored to cover his gift. "Ize bid enough to do it all myself. Unless," he added, as a happy inspiration struck him, "you'll let me help see if your buttonanoes are sour."

"Then you can only have one bite," said Budge, "You must let me taste about six grapes, 'cause 'twould take that many to make one of your bites on a banana."

"Aw wight," said Toddie; and the boys proceeded to exchange duties, Budge taking the precaution to hold the banana himself, so that his brother should not abstractedly sample a second time, and Toddie doling out the grapes with careful count.

"They are a little sour," said Budge, with a wry face. "Perhaps some other bunch is better. I think we'd better try each one, don't you?"

"An' each one of the buttonanoes, too," suggested Toddie. "That one wazh pretty good, but maybe some of the others isn't."

The proposition was accepted, and soon each banana had its length reduced by a fourth, and the grape-clusters displayed a fine development of wood. Then Budge seemed to realize that his present was not as sightly as it might be, for he carefully closed the skins at the ends, and turned the unbroken ends to the front as deftly as if he were a born retailer of fruit.

This done, he exclaimed: "Oh! we want our cards on em, else how will she know who they came from?"

"We'll be here to tell her," said Toddie.

"Huh!" said Budge; "That wouldn't make her half so happy. Don't you know how when cousin Florence gets presents of flowers, she's always happiest when she's lookin' at the card that comes with 'em?"

"Aw right," said Toddie, hurrying into the parlor,'and returning with the cards of a lady and gentleman, taken haphazard from his aunt's card-receiver.

"Now, we must write 'Happy Birthday' on the backs of 'em," said Budge, exploring his pockets, and extracting a stump of a lead-pencil. "Now," continued Budge, leaning over the card, and displaying all the facial contortions of the unpracticed writer, as he laboriously printed, in large letters, speaking, as he worked, a letter at a time:

"H—A—P—P—E B—U—R—F—D—A—Happy Birthday. Now, you must hold the pencil for yours, or else it won't be so sweet—that's what mamma says."

Toddie took the pencil in his pudgy hand, and Budge guided the hand; and two juvenile heads touched each other, and swayed, and twisted, and bobbed in unison until the work was completed.

"Now, I think she ought to come," said Budge. (Breakfast time was still more than an hour distant.) "Why, the rising-bell hasn't rung yet! Let's ring it!"

The boys fought for possession of the bell; but superior might conquered, and Budge marched up and down the hall, ringing with the enthusiasm and duration peculiar to the amateur.

"Bless me!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton, hastening to complete her toilet. "How time does fly—sometimes!"

Mr. Burton saw something in his wife's face that seemed to call for lover-like treatment; but it was not without a sense of injury that he exclaimed, immediately after, as he drew forth his watch:

"I declare! I would make an affidavit that we hadn't been awake half an hour. Ah! I forgot to wind up my watch last night."

The boys hurried into the parlor.

"I hear 'em trampin' around!" exclaimed Budge, in great excitement. "There!—the piano's shut! Isn't that too mean! Oh, I'll tell you—here's Uncle Harry's violin."

"Then whatsh I goin' to play on?" asked Toddie, dancing frantically about.

"Wait a minute," said Budge, dropping the violin, and hurrying to the floor above, from which he speedily returned with a comb. A bound volume of the Portfolio lay upon the table, and opening this, Badge tore the tissue paper from one of the etchings and wrapped the comb in it.

"There!" said he, "you fiddle an' I'll blow the comb. Goodness! why don't they come down? Oh, we forgot to put pennies under the plate, and we don't know how many years old to put 'em for."

"An' we ain't got no pennies," said Toddie.

"I know," said Budge, hurrying to a cabinet in a drawer of which his uncle kept the nucleus of a collection of American coinage. "This kind of pennies," Budge continued, "isn't so pretty as our kind, but they're bigger, an' they'll look better on a table-cloth. Now, how old do you think she is?"

"I dunno," said Toddie, going into a reverie of hopeless conjecture. "She's about as big as you and me put togevver."

"Well," said Budge, "you're four an' I'm six, an' four an' six is ten—I guess ten'll be about the thing."

Mrs. Burton's plate was removed, and the pennies were deposited in a circle. There was some painful counting and recounting, and many disagreements, additions and subtractions. Finally, the pennies were arranged in four rows, two of three each and two of two each, and Budge counted the threes and Toddie verified the twos; and Budge was adding the four sums together, when footsteps were heard descending the stairs.

Budge hastily dropped the surplus coppers upon the four rows, replaced the plate, and seized the comb as Toddie placed the violin against his knee, as he had seen small, itinerant Italians do. A second or two later, as the host and hostess entered the dining-room, there arose a sound which caused Mrs. Burton to clap her fingers to her ears, while her husband exclaimed:

'"Scat!"

Then both boys dropped their instruments, Toddie finding the ways of his own feet seriously compromised by the strings of the violin, while both children turned happy faces toward their aunt, and shouted:

"Happy Burfday!"

Mr. Burton hurried to the rescue of his darling instrument while his wife gave each boy an appreciative kiss, and showed them a couple of grateful tears. Then her eye was caught by the fruit on the sideboard, and she read the cards aloud:

"Mrs. Frank Rommery—this is like her effusiveness. I've never met her but once, but I suppose her bananas must atone for her lack of manners. Why, Charley Crewne! Dear me! What memories some men have!"

A cloud came upon Mr. Burton's brow. Charlie Crewne had been one of his rivals for Miss Mayton's hand, and Mrs. Burton was looking a trifle thoughtful, and her husband was as unreasonable as newly-made husbands are sure to be, when Mrs. Burton exclaimed:

"Some one has been picking the grapes off in the most shameful manner. Boys!"

"Ain't from no Rommerys an' Crewnes," said Toddie. "Theysh from me an' Budge, an' we dzust tasted 'em to see if they'd got sour in the night."

"Where did the cards come from?" asked Mrs. Burton.

"Out of the basket in the parlor," said Budge; "but the back is the nice part of 'em."

Mrs. Burton's thoughtful expression and her husband's frown disappeared together, as they seated themselves at the table. Both boys wriggled rigorously until their aunt raised her plate, and then Budge exclaimed:

"A penny for each year, you know."

"Thirty-one!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton, after counting the heap. "How complimentary!"

"What doesh you do for little boys on your bifeday?" asked Toddie, after breakfast was served. "Mamma does lots of fings."

"Yes," said Budge, "she says she thinks people ought to get their own happy by makin' other people happy. An' mamma knows better than you, you know, 'cause she's been married longest."

Although Mrs. Burton admitted the facts, the inference seemed scarcely natural, and she said so.

"Well—a—a—a—a—anyhow," said Toddie, "mamma always has parties on her bifeday, an' we hazh all the cake we want."

"You shall be happy to-day, then," said Mrs. Burton; "for a few friends will be in to see me this afternoon, and I am going to have a nice little lunch for them, and you shall lunch with us, if you will be very good until then, and keep yourselves clean and neat."

"Aw wight," said Toddie. "Izhn't it most time now?"

"Tod's all stomach," said Budge, with some contempt. "Say, Aunt Alice, I hope you won't forget to have some fruit-cake. That's the kind we like best."

"You'll come home very early, Harry?" asked Mrs. Burton, ignoring her nephew's question.

"By noon, at furthest," said the gentleman. "I only want to see my morning letters, and fill any orders that may be in them."

"What are you coming so early for, Uncle Harry?" asked Budge.

"To take Aunt Alice riding, old boy," said Mr. Burton.

"Oh! just listen, Tod! Won't that be jolly? Uncle Harry's going to take us riding!"

"I said I was going to take your Aunt Alice, Budge," said Mr. Burton.

"I heard you," said Budge, "but that won't trouble us any. She always likes to talk to you better than she does to us. When are we going?"

Mr. Burton asked his wife, in German, whether the Lawrence-Burton assurance was not charmingly natural, and Mrs. Burton answered in the same tongue that it was, but was none the less deserving of rebuke, and that she felt it to be her duty to tone it down in her nephews. Mr. Burton wished her joy of the attempt, and asked a number of searching questions about success already attained, until Mrs. Burton was glad to see Toddie come out of a brown study and hear him say:

"I fink that placesh where the river is bwoke off izh the nicest placesh."

"What does the child mean?" asked his aunt.

"Don't you know where we went last year, an' you stopped us from seein' how far we could hang over, Uncle Harry?" said Budge.

"Oh—Passaic Falls!" exclaimed Mr. Burton.

"Yes, that's it," said Budge.

"Old riverzh bwoke wight in two there," said Toddie, "an' a piece of it's way up in the air, an' anuvver piece izh way down in big hole in the shtones. That'sh where I want to go widin'."

"Listen, Toddy," said Mrs. Burton. "We like to take you riding with us at most times, but to-day we prefer to go alone. You and Budge will stay at home—we shan't be gone more than two hours."

"Wantsh to go a-widin'!" exclaimed Toddie.

"I know you do, dear, but you must wait until some other day," said the lady.

"But I wantsh to go," Toddie explained.

"And I don't want you to, so you can't," said Mrs. Burton, in a tone which would reduce any reasonable person to hopelessness. But Toddie, in spite of manifest astonishment, remarked:

"Wantsh to go a-widin'."

"Now the fight is on," murmured Mr. Burton to himself. Then he arose hastily from the table, and said:

"I think I'll try to catch the earlier train, my dear, as I am coming back so soon."

Mrs. Burton arose to bid her husband Good-by, and was kissed with more than usual tenderness, and then held at arm's length, while manly eyes looked into her own with an expression which she found untranslatable—for two hours at least. Mrs. Burton saw her husband fairly on his way, and then she returned to the dining-room, led Toddie into the parlor, took him upon her lap, wound her arms tenderly about him, and said:

"Now, Toddie, dear, listen carefully to what Aunt Alice tells you. There are some reasons why you boys should not go with us to-day, and Aunt Alice means just what she says when she tells you you can't go with us. If you were to ask a hundred times it would not make the slightest bit of difference. You cannot go, and you must stop thinking about it."

Toddie listened intelligently from beginning to end, and replied:

"But I wantsh to go."

"And you can't. That ends the matter."

"No, it don't," said Toddie, "not a single bittle. I wantsh to go badder than ever."

"But you are not going."

"I wantsh to go so baddy," said Toddy, beginning to cry.

"I suppose you do, and auntie is very sorry for you," said Mr. Burton, kindly; "but that does not alter the case. When grown people say 'No!' little boys must understand that they mean it."

"But what I wantsh izh to go a-widin' wif you," said Toddie.

"And what I want is, that you shall stay at home; so you must," said Mrs. Burton. Let us have no more talk about it now. Shouldn't you like to go into the garden and pick some strawberries all for yourself?"

"No; I'd like to go widin'."

"Toddie," said Mrs. Burton, "don't let me hear one more word about riding."

"Well, I want to go."

"Toddie, I will certainly have to punish you if you say any more on this subject, and that will make me very unhappy. You don't want to make auntie unhappy on her birthday, do you?"

"No; but I do want to go a-widin'."

"Listen Toddie," said Mrs. Burton, with an imperious stamp of her foot, and a sudden loss of her entire stock of patience. "If you say one more word about that trip, I will lock you up in the attic chamber, where you were day before yesterday, and Budge shall not be with you."



Toddie gave vent to a perfect torrent of tears, and screamed:

"A—h—h—h! I don't want to be locked up, an' I do want to go a-widin'."

Toddie suddenly found himself clasped tightly in his aunt's arms, in which position he kicked, pushed, screamed, and roared, during the passage of two flights of stairs. The moment of his final incarceration was marked by a piercing shriek which escaped from the attic window, causing the dog Jerry to retire precipitately from a pleasing lounging-place on the well-curb, and making a passing farmer to rein up his horses, and maintain a listening position for the space of five minutes. Meanwhile Mrs. Burton descended to the parlor, more flushed, untidy and angry than one had ever before seen her. She soon encountered the gaze of her nephew Budge, and it was so full of solemnity that Mrs. Burton's anger departed in an instant.

"How would you like to be carried up-stairs screamin' an' put in a lonely room, just 'cause you wanted to go riding?" asked Budge.

Mrs. Burton was unable to imagine herself in any such position, but replied:

"I should never be so foolish as to keep on wanting what I knew I could not have."

"Why!" exclaimed Budge. "Are grown folks as smart, as all that?"

Mrs. Burton's conscience smote her not over-lightly, and she hastened to change the subject, and to devote herself assiduously to Budge, as if to atone for some injury which she might have done to his brother. An occasional howl which fell from the attic-window increased her zeal for Budge's comfort. Under each one, however, her resolution grew weaker, and finally, with a hypocritical excuse to Budge, Mrs. Burton hurried up to the door of Toddie's prison, and said through the keyhole:

"Toddie?"

"What?" said Toddie.

"Will you be a good-boy, now!"

"Yesh, if you'll take me a-widin'."

Mrs. Burton turned abruptly away, and simply flew down the stairs. Budge, who awaited her at the foot, instinctively stood aside, and exclaimed:

"My! I thought you was goin' to tumble! Why didn't you bring him down?"

"Bring who?" asked Mrs. Burton, indignantly.

"Oh, I know what you went up-stairs for?" said Budge. "Your eyes told me all about it."

"You're certainly a rather inconvenient companion," said Mrs. Burton, averting her face, "and I want you to run home and ask how your mamma and baby-sister are. Don't stay long; remember that lunch will be earlier than usual to-day."

Away went Budge, and Mrs. Burton devoted herself to thought and self-questioning. Unquestioning obedience had been her own duty since she could remember, yet she was certain that her will was as strong as Toddie's. If she had been always able to obey, certainly the unhappy little boy in the attic was equally capable—why should he not do it? Perhaps, she admitted to herself, she had inherited a faculty in this direction, and perhaps—yes, certainly, Toddie had done nothing of the sort. How was she to overcome the defect in his disposition; or was she to do it at all? Was it not something with which no one temporarily having a child in charge should interfere? As she pondered, an occasional scream from Toddie helped to unbend the severity of her principles, but suddenly her eye rested upon a picture of her husband, and she seemed to see in one of the eyes a quizzical expression. All her determination came back in an instant with heavy reinforcements, and Budge came back a few minutes later. His bulletins from home, and his stores of experiences en route consumed but a few moments, and then Mrs. Burton proceeded to dress for her ride. To exclude Toddie's screams she closed her door tightly, but Toddie's voice was one with which all timber seemed in sympathy, and it pierced door and window apparently without effort. Gradually, however, it seemed to cease, and with the growing infrequency of his howls and the increasing feebleness of their utterance, Mrs. Burton's spirits revived. Dressing leisurely, she ascended Toddie's prison to receive his declaration of penitence and to accord a gracious pardon. She knocked softly at the door, and said:

"Toddie?"

There was no response, so Mrs. Burton knocked and called with more energy than before, but without reply. A terrible fear occurred to her! she had heard of children who screamed themselves to death when angry. Hastily she opened the door, and saw Toddie tear-stained and dirty, lying on the floor, fast asleep. She stooped over him to be sure that he still breathed, and then the expression on his sweetly parted lips was such that she could not help kissing them. Then she raised the pathetic, desolate little figure softly in her arms, and the little head dropped upon her shoulder and nestled close to her neck, and one little arm was clasped tightly around her throat, and a soft voice murmured:

"I wantsh to go a'widin'."

And just then Mr. Burton entered, and, with a most exasperating affection of ingenuousness and uncertainty, asked:

"Did you conquer his will, my dear?"

His wife annihilated him with a look, and led the way to the dining-room; meanwhile Toddie awoke, straightened himself, rubbed his eyes, recognized his uncle and exclaimed:

"Uncle Harry, does you know where we's goin' this afternoon? We's goin' a-widin'."

And Mr. Burton hid in his napkin all of his face that was below his eyes, and his wife wished that his eyes might have been hidden, too, for never in her life had she been so averse to having her own eyes looked into.

The extreme saintliness of both boys during the afternoon's ride took the sting out of Mrs. Burton's defeat. They gabbled to each other about flowers and leaves and birds, and they assumed ownership of the few Summer clouds that were visible, and made sundry exchanges of them with each. When the dog Jerry, who had surreptitiously followed the carriage and grown weary, was taken in by his master, they even allowed him to lie at their feet without kicking, pinching his ears, or pulling his tail.

As for Mrs. Burton, no right-minded husband could willfully torment his wife upon her birthday, so she soon forgot the humiliation of the morning, and came home with superb spirits and matchless complexion for the little party. Her guests soon began to arrive, and after the company was assembled Mrs. Burton's chambermaid ushered in Budge and Toddie, each in spotless attire, and the dog Jerry ushered himself in, and Toddie saw him and made haste to interview him, and the two got inextricably mixed about the legs of a light jardiniere, and it came down with a crash, and then the two were sent into disgrace, which suited them exactly; although there was a difference between them as to whether the dog Jerry should seek and enjoy the seclusion upon which his heart was evidently intent.

Then Budge retired with a face full of fatherly solicitude, and Mrs. Burton was enabled to devote herself to the friends to whom she had not previously been able to address a single consecutive sentence.

Mrs. Burton occasionally suggested to her husband that it might be well to see where the boys were, and what they were doing; but that gentleman had seldom before found himself the only man among a dozen comely and intelligent ladies, and he was too conscious of the variety of such experiences to trouble himself about a couple of people who had unlimited ability to keep themselves out of trouble; so the boys were undisturbed for the space of two hours. A sudden Summer shower came up in the meantime, and a sentimental young lady requested the song "Rain upon the Roof," and Mrs. Burton and her husband began to render it as a duet; but in the middle of the second stanza Mrs. Burton began to cough, Mr. Burton sniffed the air apprehensively, while several of the ladies started to their feet while others turned pale. The air of the room was evidently filled with smoke.

"There can't be any danger, ladies," said Mrs. Burton. "You all know what the American domestic servant is. I suppose our cook, with her delicate sense of the appropriate, is relighting her fire, and has the kitchen doors wide open, so that all the smoke may escape through the house instead of the chimney. I'll go and stop it."

The mere mention of servants had its usual effect; the ladies began at once that animated conversation which this subject has always inspired, and which it will probably continue to inspire until all housekeepers gather in that happy land, one of whose charms it is that the American kitchen is undiscernible within its borders, and the purified domestic may stand before her mistress without needing a scolding. But one nervous young lady, whose agitation was being manifested by her feet alone, happened to touch with the toe of her boot the turn-screw of the hot-air register. Instantly she sprang back and uttered a piercing scream, while from the register there arose a thick column of smoke.

"Fire!" screamed one lady.

"Water!" shrieked another.

"Oh!" shouted several in chorus.

Some ran up-stairs, others into the rainy street, the nervous young lady fainted, a business-like young matron, who had for years been maturing plans of operation in case of fire, hastily swept into a table-cover a dozen books in special morocco bindings, and hurried through the rain with them to a house several hundred feet away, while the faithful dog Jerry, scenting the trouble afar off, hurried home and did his duty to the best of his ability by barking and snapping furiously at every one, and galloping frantically through the house, leaving his mark upon almost every square yard of the carpet. Meanwhile Mr. Burton hurried up-stairs coatless, with disarranged hair, dirty hands, smirched face, and assured the ladies that there was no danger, while Budge and Toddie, the former deadly pale, and the latter almost apoplectic in color, sneaked up to their own chamber.

The company dispersed: ladies who had expected carriages did not wait for them, but struggled to the extreme verge of politeness for the use of such umbrellas and waterproof-cloaks as Mrs. Burton could supply. Fifteen minutes later the only occupant of the parlor was the dog Jerry, who lay, with alert head, in the centre of a large "Turkish chair. Mrs. Burton, tenderly supported by her husband, descended the stair, and contemplated with tightly compressed lips and blazing eyes the disorder of her desolated parlor. When, however, she reached the dining-room and beheld the exquisitely-set lunch-table, to the arrangement of which she had devoted hours of thought in preceding days and weeks, she burst into a flood of tears.

"I'll tell you how it was," remarked Budge, who appeared suddenly and without invitation, and whose consciousness of good intention made him as adamant before the indignant frowns of his uncle and aunt, "I always think bonfires is the nicest things about celebrations, an' Tod an' me have been carryin' sticks for two days to make a big bonfire in the back yard to-day. But then it rained, an' rainy sticks won't burn—I guess we found that out last Thanksgivin' Day. So we thought we'd make one in the cellar, 'cause the top is all tin, an' the bottom's all dirt, an' it can't rain in there at all. An' we got lots of newspapers and kindlin'-wood, an' put some kerosene on it, an' it blazed up beautiful, an' we was just comin' up to ask you all down to look at it, when in came Uncle Harry, an' banged me against the wall an' Tod into the coal-heap, an' threw a mean old dirty carpet on top of it, an' wet'ed it all over."

"Little boysh never can do anyfing nysh wivout bein' made to don't," said Toddie. "Dzust see what an awful big splinter I got in my hand when I was froin' wood on the fire! I didn't cry a bit about it then, 'cause I fought I was makin' uvver folks happy, like the Lord wants little boysh to. But they didn't get happy, so now I am goin' to cry 'bout the splinter!"

And Toddie raised a howl which was as much superior to his usual cry as things made to order generally are over the ordinary supply.

"We had a torchlight procession, too," said Budge. "We had to have it in the attic, but it wasn't very nice. There wasn't any trees up there for the light to dance around on, like it does on 'lection-day nights. So we just stopped, an' would have felt real doleful if we hadn't thought of the bonfire."

"Where did you leave the torches?" asked Mr. Burton, springing from his chair, and lifting his wife to her feet at the same time.

"I—I dunno," said Budge, after a moment of thought.

"Froed 'em in a closet where the rags is, so's not to dyty the nice floor wif 'em," said Toddie.

Mr. Burton hurried up-stairs and extinguished a smoldering heap of rags, while his wife, truer to herself than she imagined she was, drew Budge to her, and said, kindly:

"Wanting to make people happy, and doing it are two very different things, Budge."

"Yes, I should think they was," said Budge, with an emphasis which explained much that was left unsaid.

"Little boysh is goosies for tryin' to make big folksh happy at all," said Toddie, beginning again to cry.

"Oh, no, they're not, dear," said Mrs. Burton, taking the sorrowful child into her lap. "But they don't always understand how best to do it, so they ought to ask big folks before they begin."

"Then there wouldn't be no s'prises," complained Toddie. "Say; izh we goin' to eat all this supper?"

"I suppose so, if we can," sighed Mrs. Burton.

"I guesh we can—Budgie an' me," said Toddie. "An' won't we be glad all them wimmens wented away!"

That evening, after the boys had retired, Mrs. Burton seemed a little uneasy of mind, and at length she said to her husband:

"I feel guilty at never having directed the boys' devotions since they have been here, and I know no better time than the present in which to begin."

Mr. Burton's eyes followed his wife reverently as she left the room. The service she proposed to render the children she had sometimes performed for himself, with results for which he could not be grateful enough, and yet it was not with unalloyed anticipation that he softly followed her up the stair. Mrs. Burton went into the chamber and found the boys playing battering-ram, each with a pillow in front of him.

"Children," said she, "have you said your prayers?"

"No," said Budge; "somebody's got to be knocked down first. Then we will."

A sudden tumble by Toddie was the signal for devotional exercises, and both boys knelt beside the bed.

"Now, darlings," said Mrs. Burton, "you have made some sad mistakes to-day, and they should teach you that, even when you want most to do right, you need to be helped by somebody better. Don't you think so?"

"I do," said Budge. "Lots."

"I don't," said Toddie. "More help I getsh, the worse fings is. Guesh I'll do fings all alone affer thish."

"I know what to say to the Lord to-night, Aunt Alice," said Budge.

"Dear little boy," said Mrs. Burton, "go on."

"Dear Lord," said Budge, "we do have the awfullest times when we try to make other folks happy. Do, please, Lord—please teach big folks how hard little folks have to think before they do things for 'em. An' make 'em understand little folks every way better than they do, so that they don't make little folks unhappy when they try to make big folks feel jolly. Make big folks have to think as hard as little folks do, for Christ's sake—Amen! Oh, yes, an' bless dear mamma an' the sweet little sister baby. How's that, Aunt Alice?"

Mrs. Burton did not reply, and Budge, on turning, saw only her departing figure, while Toddie remarked:

"Now, it's my tyne (turn.) Dear Lord, when I getsh to be a little boy anzel up in hebben, don't let growed-up anzels come along whenever I'm doin' anyfing nice for 'em, an' say 'don't,' or tumble me down in heaps of nashty old black coal. There! Amen!"

It was with a sneaking sense of relief that Mrs. Burton awoke on the following morning, and realized that the day was Sunday. Even schoolteachers have two days of rest in every seven, thought Mrs. Burton to herself, and no one doubts that they deserve them. How much more deserving of rest and relief, then, must be the volunteer teacher who, not for a few hours only, but from dawn to twilight, has charge of two children whose capacity for both learning and mischief, surely equals any school-full of boys? The realization that she was attempting, for a few days only, that which mothers everywhere were doing without hope of rest excepting in heaven, made Mrs. Burton feel more humble and worthless than she had ever done in her life before, but it did not banish her wish to turn the children over to the care of their uncle for the day. If Mrs. Burton had been honest with herself she would have admitted that the principal cause of her anxiety for relief was her unwillingness to have her husband witness the failures which she had come to believe were to be her daily lot while trying to train her nephews. Thoughts of a Sunday excursion, from participation in which she should in some way excuse herself; of volunteering to relieve her sister-in-law's nurse during the day, and thus leaving her husband in charge of the house and the children; of making that visit to her mother which is always in order with the newly-made wife—all these, and other devices not so practicable, came before Mrs. Burton's mind's eye for comparison, but they all and together took sudden wing when Mr. Burton awoke and complained of a raging toothache. Truly pitiful and sympathetic as Mrs. Burton was, she exhibited remarkable resignation in the face of the thought that her husband would probably need to remain in his room all day, and that it would be absolutely necessary to keep the children out of his sight and hearing. Then he could find nothing to criticise; she might fail as frequently as she probably would, but he would know only of her successes.

A light knock was heard at Mrs. Burton's door, and then, without waiting for invitation, there came in two fresh, rosy faces, two heads of disarranged hair, and two long white nightgowns, and the occupant of the longer gown exclaimed:

"Say, Uncle Harry, do you know it's Sunday? What are you going to do about it? We always have lots done for us Sundays, 'cause it's the only day papa's home."

"Yes, I—think I've heard—something of the kind—before," mumbled Mr. Burton, with difficulty, between the fingers which covered his aching incisor.

"Oh—h," exclaimed Toddie, "I b'lieve he' goin' to play bear! Come on, Budge, we's got to be dogs." And Toddie buried his face in the bed-covering and succeeded in fastening his teeth in his uncle's calf. A howl from the sufferer did not frighten off the amateur dog, and he was finally dislodged only by being clutched by the throat by his victim.

"That izhn't the way to play bear," complained Toddie; "you ought to keep on a-howlin' an' let me keep on a-bitin', an' then you give me pennies to stop—that's the way papa does."

"Can you see how Tom Lawrence can be so idiotic?" asked Mrs. Burton.

"I suppose I could," replied the gentleman, "if I hadn't such a toothache."

"You poor old fellow!" said Mrs. Burton, tenderly. Then she turned to her nephews, and exclaimed: "Now, boys, listen to me! Uncle Harry is very sick to-day—he has a dreadful toothache, and every particle of bother and noise will make it worse. You must both keep away from his room, and be as quiet as possible wherever you may be in the house. Even the sound of people talking is very annoying to a person with the toothache."

"Then you's a baddy woman to stay in here an' keep a-talkin' all the whole time," said Toddie, "when it makes poor old Uncle Harry supper so. G'way."

Mrs. Burton's lord and master was not in too much pain to shake considerably with silent laughter over this unexpected rebuke, and the lady herself was too thoroughly startled to devise an appropriate retort; so the boys amused themselves by a general exploration of the chamber, not omitting even the pockets of their uncle's clothing. This work completed, to the full extent of their ability, the boys demanded breakfast.

"Breakfast won't be ready until eight o'clock," said Mrs. Burton, "and it is now only six. If you little boys don't want to feel dreadfully hungry, you had better go back to bed, and lie as quiet as possible."

"Is that the way not to be hungry?" asked Toddie, with wide-open eyes, which always accompany the receptive mind.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Burton. "If you run about, you agitate your stomachs, and that makes them restless, and so you feel hungry."

"Gwacious!" said Toddie. "What lots of fings little boys has got to lyne (learn), hazn't they? Come on, Budgie—let's go put our tummuks to bed, an' keep 'em from gettin' ajjerytated."

"All right," said Budge. "But say, Aunt Alice, don't you s'pose our stomachs would be sleepier an' not so restless if there was some crackers or bread an' butter in 'em?"

"There's no one down-stairs to get you any," said Mrs. Burton.

"Oh," said Budge, "we can find them. We know where everything is in the pantries and store-room."

"I wish I were so smart," sighed Mrs Burton. "Go along—get what you want—but don't come back to this room again. And don't let me find anything in disorder down-stairs, or I shall never trust you in my kitchen again."

Away flew the children, but their disappearance only made room for a new torment, for Mr. Burton stopped in the middle of the operation of shaving himself, and remarked:

"I've been longing for Sunday to come, for your sake, my dear. The boys, as you have frequently observed, have very strange notions about holy things; but they are also, by nature, quite religious and spiritually minded. You are not only this latter, but you are free from strange doctrines and the traditions of men. The mystical influences of the day will make themselves felt upon those innocent little hearts, and you will have the opportunity to correct wrong teachings and instil new sentiments and truths."

Mr. Burton's voice had grown a little shaky as he reached the close of this neat and reverential speech, so that his wife scrutinized his face closely to see if there might not be a laugh somewhere about it. A friendly coating of lather protected one cheek, however, and the troublesome tooth had distorted the shape of the other, so Mrs. Burton was compelled to accept the mingled ascription of praise and responsibility, which she did with a sinking heart.

"I'll take care of them while you're at church, my dear," said Mr. Burton; "they're always saintly with sick people."

Mrs. Burton breathed a sigh of relief. She determined that she would extemporize a special "Children's service" immediately after breakfast, and impress her nephews as fully as possible with the spirit of the day; then if her husband would but continue the good work thus begun, it would be impossible for the boys to fall from grace in the few hours which remained between dinner-time and darkness. Full of her project, and forgetting that she had allowed her chambermaid to go to early Mass and promised herself to see that the children were dressed for breakfast, Mrs. Burton, at the breakfast-table, noticed that her nephews did not respond with their usual alacrity to the call of the bell. Recalling her forgotten duty, she hurried to the boys' chamber, and found them already enjoying a repast which was remarkable at least for variety. On a small table, drawn to the side of the bed, was a pie, a bowl of pickles, a dish of honey in the comb, and a small paper package of cinnamon bark, and, with spoons, knives and forks and fingers, the boys were helping themselves alternately to these delicacies. Seeing his aunt, Toddie looked rather guilty, but Budge displayed the smile of the fully justified, and remarked:

"Now, you know what kind of meals little boys like, Aunt Alice. I hope you won't forget it while we're here."

"What do you mean!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton, sternly, "by bringing such things up-stairs?"

"Why," said Budge, "you told us to get what we wanted, an' we supposed you told the troof."

"An' I ain't azh hungry azh I wazh," remarked Toddie, "but my tummuk feels as if it growed big and got little again, every minute or two, an' it hurts. I wishes we could put tummuks away when we get done usin' 'em, like we do hats an' overshoes."

To sweep the remains of the unique morning lunch into a heap and away from her nephews, was a work which occupied but a second or two of Mrs. Burton's time; this done, two little boys found themselves robed more rapidly than they had ever before been. Arrived at the breakfast-table, they eyed with withering contempt an irreproachable cutlet, some crisp-brown potatoes of wafer-like thinness, and a heap of rolls almost as light as snowflakes.

"We don't want done of this kind of breakfast," said Budge.

"Of course we don't," said Toddie, "when we's so awful full of uvver fings. I don't know where I'zhe goin' to put my dinner when it comes time to eat it."

"Don't fret about that, Tod," said Budge. "Don't you know papa says that the Bible says something that means 'don't worry till you have to.'"

Mrs. Burton raised her eyebrows with horror not unmixed with inquiry, and her husband hastened to give Budge's sentiment its proper Biblical wording. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Mrs. Burton's wonder was allayed by the explanation, although her horror was not, and she made haste to say:

"Boys, we will have a little Sunday-school, all by ourselves, in the parlor, immediately after breakfast."

"Hooray!" shouted Budge. "An' will you give us a ticket an' pass around a box for pennies, just like they do in big Sunday-schools?"

"I—suppose so," said Mrs. Burton, who had not previously thought of these special attractions of the successful Sunday-school.

"Let's go right in, Tod," said Budge,"'cause the dog's in there. I saw him as I came down, and I shut all the doors, so he couldn't get out. We can have some fun with him 'fore Sunday-school begins."

Both boys started for the parlor-door, and, guided by that marvelous instinct with which Providence arms the few against the many, and the weak against the strong, the dog Jerry also approached the door from the inside. As the door opened, there was heard a convulsive howl, and a general tumbling of small boys, while at almost the same instant the dog Jerry flew into the dining-room and hid himself in the folds of his mistress's morning-robe. Two or three minutes later Budge entered the dining-room with a very rueful countenance, and remarked:

"I guess we need that Sunday-school pretty quick, Aunt Alice. The dog don't want to play with us, and we ought to be comforted some way."

"They're grown people, all over again," remarked Mr. Burton, with a laugh.

"What do you mean?" demanded Mrs. Burton.



"Only this—that when their own devices fail, they're in a hurry for the consolations of religion," said Mr. Burton. "May I visit the Sunday-school?"

"I suppose I can't keep you away," sighed Mrs. Burton, leading the way to the parlor. "Boys," said she, greeting her nephews, "first, we'll sing a little hymn; what shall it be?"

"Ole Uncle Ned," said Toddie, promptly.

"Oh, that's not a Sunday song," said Mrs. Burton.

"I fink tizh," said Toddie, "'cause it sayzh, free or four timezh, 'He's gone where de good niggers go,' an' that's hebben, you know; so it's a Sunday song."

"I think 'Glory, glory, hallelujah!' is nicer," said Budge, "an' I know that's a Sunday song, 'cause I've heard it in church."

"Aw wight," said Toddie; and he immediately started the old air himself, with the words, "There liezh the whisky-bottle, empty on the sheff," but was suddenly brought to order by a shake from his aunt, while his uncle danced about the front parlor in an ecstasy not directly traceable to toothache.

"That's not a Sunday song either, Toddie," said Mrs. Burton. "The words are real rowdyish. Where did you learn them?"

"Round the corner from our housh," said Toddie, "an' you can shing your ole shongs yourseff, if you don't like mine."

Mrs. Burton went to the piano, rambled among chords for a few seconds, and finally recalled a Sunday-school air in which Toddie joined as angelically as if his own musical taste had never been impugned.

"Now I guess we'd better take up the collection before any little boys lose their pennies," said Budge, hurrying to the dining-room, and returning with a strawberry-box which seemed to have been specially provided for the occasion; this he passed gravely before Toddie, and Toddie held his hand over it as carefully as if he were depositing hundreds, and then Toddie took the box and passed it before Budge, who made the same dumb show, after which Budge retook the box, shook it, listened, and remarked, "It don't rattle—I guess it's all paper-money, to-day," placed it upon the mantel, reseated himself, and remarked:

"Now bring on your lesson."

Mrs. Burton opened her Bible with a sense of utter helplessness. With the natural instinct of a person given to thoroughness, she opened at the beginning of the book, but she speedily closed it again—the first chapter of Genesis had suggested many a puzzling question even to her orthodox mind. Turning the leaves rapidly, passing, for conscience sake, the record of many a battle, the details of which would have delighted the boys, and hurrying by the prophecies as records not for the minds of children, she at last reached the New Testament, and the ever-new story of the only boy who ever was all that his parents and relatives could wish him to be.

"The lesson will be about Jesus," said Mrs. Burton."

"Little-boy Jesus or big-man Jesus?" asked Toddie.

"A—a—both," replied the teacher, in some confusion.

"Aw wight," said Toddie. "G'won."

"There was once a time when all the world was in trouble, without knowing exactly why," said Mrs. Burton; "but the Lord understood it, for He understands everything."

"Does He knows how it feels to be a little boy?" asked Toddie, "an' be sent to bed when He don't want to go?"

"And He determined to comfort the world, as He always does when the world finds out it can't comfort itself," continued Mrs. Burton, entirely ignoring her nephew's questions.

"But wasn't there lotzh of little boyzh then?" asked Toddie, "an' didn't they used to be comforted as well as big folks?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Burton. "But He knew if He comforted grown people, they would make the children happy."

"I wiss He'd comfort you an' Uncle Harry every mornin', then," said Toddie. "G'won."

"So He sent His own Son—his only Son—down to the world to be a dear little baby."

"I should think He'd have made Him a sister baby," said Budge, "if He'd wanted to make everybody happy."

"He knew best," said Mrs. Burton. "And while smart people everywhere were wondering what would or could happen to quiet the restless heart of people—"

"Izh restless hearts like restless tummuks?" interrupted Toddie. "Kind o' limpy an' wabbley?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Burton.

"Poor folks," said Toddie clasping, his hands over his waistband: "Izhe sorry for 'em."

"While smart folks were trying to think out what should be done," continued Mrs. Burton, "some simple shepherds, who used to sit around at night under the moon and stars, and wonder about things which they could not understand, saw a wonderfully bright star up in the sky."