It won't always be so: I think that by and by, when Phil gets to be a man, he'll have more judgment; and now it's only because he's so true himself, and so simple-hearted. I really believe I love him all the better for these traits, though sometimes, when I get provoked, I tell him that he is gullible, and a second Dr. Primrose.

When I found that I couldn't possibly go to college, it was a great relief to know that Murray Unsworth was there, and that they'd be together. Murray's an A 1 fellow! But I must confess that so far Phil hasn't changed at all; he depends on me and seems to like to be with me just as much as ever. And now comes along that snob Chad. I don't like that fellow, and I'll be furious if he gets intimate with Phil. Phil didn't like him at all at first, but I can see—though he won't admit it—that Chad is worming himself into his good graces. He's found out that Phil is first-rate company, and now he is trying to be very friendly.

Max was called out of town on the evening of Nora's birthday, and he didn't get back for some time; but that has not prevented Monsieur le Donkey from coming here again and again. He had the assurance to send his card up to Nora the second time he called,—for her to go down to the drawing-room and entertain him alone! just like his impudence! But of course Miss Marston would not let Nora go, and instead, the pater walked in, and squelched Mr. "Shad." We don't know what father said, but the next time Chad appeared he found the schoolroom good enough for him; and now, as I said, he is trying to be very friendly with Phil.

I don't want him to get intimate with Phil; I dread it, for I have a conviction he's not the sort of fellow that it will do anybody any good to know. From what he has told Nora, it seems that Chad's father was a miner who "struck a bonanza," as he expresses it, and made a great deal of money; then, just as he was ready to enjoy the fortune, he and his wife were killed in a railroad disaster, leaving Chad, who was the only child, to the guardianship of a fellow miner—another "bonanza" man—and Max, whose only acquaintance with Mr. Whitcomb, by the way, had been in successfully conducting a law case for him. The other guardian took the boy all over the United States, and then to Europe, letting him, I fancy, do as he pleased,—study or not as suited his own will,—with the result that Chad is an ignorant, vulgar, conceited cad, with the merest veneering of refinement, who cares for no one but himself, and whose sole standard for everything and every one is that of money. When the other guardian died, of course Max had to assume the charge of Chad,—who'll not be of age for nearly two years,—though I should think he must be a serious trial, for Max is so thoroughly nice himself, so honourable and clever and refined, that this affected, snobbish little Dresden-china-young-man, as Betty calls him, must jar on him in every way, though perhaps Chad is on his best behaviour with his guardian.

Chad affects to be quite a man of the world, talks a great deal about his "bachelor quarters" and the theatres; he drinks and smokes, and I've heard him swear; he considers all this the proper thing for young fellows of our age, and more than once he has sneered at Phil and me as "behind the times." He calls Murray "the Innocent," though I've snubbed him for it pretty sharply, and whenever he gets a chance, he makes fun of Hilliard's slow ways, when old Hill is worth a dozen or two of such blowers as he. I almost wish Murray'd give the bediamonded cad a thrashing,—only that the fellow's not worth his touching. Phil and I neither drink nor smoke; we've never spoken about it to each other, but we know that our—mother—would not have liked us to do any of these things, so we let them alone.

I think Chad knows that I've no liking for him,—to put it mildly,—and that he returns the compliment. I try not to quarrel with him; in fact,—though it goes awfully against the grain,—I make an effort to be civil, so as to see, hear, and know all that goes on between himself and Phil, and to be able to guard Phil from him without Phil's knowing it.

I've said a few things to warn Phil; but I had to be careful, for he's such an old Quixote that, if he thought I was particularly down on Chad, he'd begin to take up the cudgels for him. But he sha'n't get hold of Phil, I declare he sha'n't,—not as long as I am here. I wish to goodness he hadn't ever come near us!

Nannie is the only one to whom I've said anything of my fear, and she laughs it away. She says Phil is the last person in the world to fall in with a fellow like Chad; but I'm not so sure of that, for Chad can be entertaining enough when he chooses to be, telling of his life in California and the wild West, and in Europe. I know he has invited Phil to come to his rooms, and twice he has taken him off for a long walk.

Phil loves to walk, with long, swinging strides, that, try to keep up as I may, wear me out before we've gone many blocks, even with the support of his arm. So there I can't be with him.

She used to say that it was best to recognise one's limitations, and to respect them: I recognise mine only too well,—I've got to; but instead of respecting, I abhor them, and am always striving to get beyond them. With all the strength of soul that is in me I try to be patient and contented—to accept myself; but now that she has gone, only God and I know the miserable failure I make of it day after day. I want to do so much; I want to amount to something in the world, to have advantages for study and improvement, and to fit myself to mix with wise men by and by,—clever men and scholars,—and to hold my own among them. I could do it, I feel I could, if only I had the opportunity for study, and the health to improve it; this isn't conceit,—she knew that,—but a cool, calm gauging of the sort of ability that I know I have.

We—she and I—used to plan great things that I was to do when I went to college; when I finished college, and went into the world, I was to become a famous lawyer,—"good, wise, and great, my son Felix," she used to say, with a look in her eyes that always stirred me to more and better efforts. She helped me in every way, and it was a delight to learn, in spite of the drawback of ill-health. But now all is changed: she is gone, there is no prospect whatever of my getting to college, and somehow, lately, this miserable old back of mine seems to be getting to be a wetter and wetter blanket than ever on my ambition. Ah, if I but had a physique like Phil's! She used to say, "Remember always, Felix, that your fine mind is a gift from God, a responsibility given you by Him." Oh, why, then, did He not give me a body to match? All things are possible to Him; He could have done so.

When I was a little fellow I used to pray most earnestly that God would let me outgrow this lameness and be strong like other boys; but we had a talk about it,—just before she went away,—and ever since then I have asked only to be patient and contented. But with all the trying, it is very hard to say truthfully that I am thankful for my creation. I have never spoken of this to Nannie, but perhaps, with that quick intuition which makes her such a blessing to us, she guesses it; for only last Sunday, in church, when we came to that part in the General Thanksgiving, she snuggled closer to me as we knelt, and gave my hand a quick, warm little squeeze, as if to tell me that she was glad of my "creation and preservation."

Nannie comforts me more than I can ever express to her; she has many a time given me courage when my spirits were at a very low ebb.



XI.

AN AFTERNOON RECEPTION.

TOLD BY FELIX.

Though I felt all right the next day, to please nurse I did not get up; but on Wednesday I did. At first my legs were very shaky, even for me: my cane was not enough; I had to hold on to the furniture besides to make my way about the room. But gradually that wore away, and by afternoon I was quite as well as usual; so on Thursday we went to the reception in the order first planned.

The Blackwoods live in a large old house, and by the time we got there—we were rather late—the parlours were quite crowded. I think the pater was a little nervous as we went up the palm-lined staircase; he hates an affair of this kind, and only the rare editions and a strong dislike to hurting the feelings of his old friends could have induced him to attend it. He kept Nannie close beside him, Nora and I following behind.

Mrs. Blackwood is a fine-looking old lady, with beautiful white hair, which she wears turned straight off her face; she gave us a warm welcome, and after walking father through the rooms, and introducing him to a number of people,—not one of whom he would have recognised five minutes after!—and after showing us the Corot, which is a beauty! she led the way to the library. It was a cosy room, for all it was so large. The walls were lined with books; a desk stood near one of the windows; some tables—on which were books, photos, and several handsome glass and china bowls filled with flowers—and a variety of comfortable chairs were scattered about; in a space between the book-shelves, and thrown into bold relief by the dark portiere behind it, was an exquisite marble Laocooen, and in the bay-window the beautiful Venus de Milo.



I should have enjoyed staying there, but we'd only been in a short while when Mrs. Blackwood's daughter came and carried us younger ones off to the drawing-room again. In vain Nannie and I politely protested that we should rather stay in the library; Mrs. Endicott was not to be resisted. "Your father and my mother enjoy looking at books more than anything else," she said pleasantly, as we made our reluctant way back; "but I know that young people like to be where there are life and gaiety,—and you haven't even had a cup of chocolate. Come this way, and I'll introduce you to Miss Devereaux."

She piloted us rapidly through the crowd to the upper end of the room, where at a table sat a young lady pouring chocolate, to whom she introduced us.

Taking my "thimbleful" of chocolate, I retreated to a corner where I could sit and sip and take observations unobserved. To begin with, I could not but notice the difference in my two sisters. Nannie had found a place on a lounge near the tea-table, and was gazing about her with the deepest interest,—her brown eyes all a-shine, the faintest ripple of a smile stirring her lips; to my eyes she looked very sweet! Nora stood, cup in hand, sipping her chocolate, and chatting as easily to Miss Devereaux and the different ones who came up as if she were in the habit of going to afternoon receptions every day in the week. I saw people look and look again at her, and it didn't surprise me, for Nora is a stunner, and no mistake. As Phil says, she carries herself as if she owned the whole earth, and she is self-possessed to a degree that is a constant surprise to us. If she weren't always so dead sure that she is right and everybody else wrong, we'd all think a great deal more of her; but as she is, one feels it a positive duty to snub her sometimes. We are proud of Nora's beauty, but she's the very last one we'd any of us go to for comfort or in a strait,—why, Betty'd be better, for all she's so fly-away and blunt.

Miss Devereaux was handsome, too: she was large and statuesque, with beautifully moulded throat and arms, and hair which rippled like that of my poor old plaster Juno at home,—in fact, she suggested to my mind some Greek goddess dressed up in silk and lace; I quite enjoyed looking at her, and would have liked to make a sketch of her. But she wasn't as nice as she looked; in her way she was as snobbish as is Chad. A tall, very richly dressed woman was brought up and introduced; she wore enormous diamond ear-rings, and her manner was even more condescending than that of the young goddess herself. She pulled forward a chair, completely barring the way to the table, and, seating herself, stirred her chocolate languidly.

Miss Devereaux was all attention; she offered almost everything on the table, and listened with the deepest interest while the diamond lady talked loudly and impressively of her last afternoon reception,—the distinguished people who were present, and what the music and refreshments cost. Then, suddenly remembering that she was "due at one of 'Mrs. Judge' Somebody's receptions,—they were always alagant affairs,"—the diamond lady put down her cup, from which she had barely taken a sip or two, and with a bow, and what Phil calls "a galvanised smile," sailed off to parts unknown.

"Such a charming woman!" murmured the goddess to Nannie.

Before Nannie could answer, there was a new claimant for refreshments,—a slender, rather spare little woman this time, dressed in a severely plain black gown; her hair was parted and pulled tightly away from her face; her bonnet was a good deal plainer and uglier than anything that nurse has ever had,—and she has rather distinguished herself in that line. This little woman was evidently not used to receptions and young goddesses. She seated herself on the extreme edge of the chair the diamond lady had just vacated, and after taking off her gloves, and laying them across her lap, she accepted her chocolate and cake with a deprecating air, as if apologising for the trouble she was causing. "Oh, thank you, thank you," she said gratefully; "you are very kind."

The young goddess gave her a haughty stare, and then assumed a bored expression that I could see made the poor little woman nervous. She stirred her chocolate violently, and drank half of the cupful at a draught; then, evidently considering it her duty to make conversation, she remarked, "Didn't we have an interesting address yesterday at the Missions House?" She glanced at Miss Devereaux as she spoke.

"Ah—indeed!" answered that young person, with another haughty glare that almost overcame the little woman. She got very red, and in her agitation drained her cup, and sat holding it. She looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

I'm not fond of addressing strangers, but I couldn't stand that sort of treatment any longer, and got on my feet with the desperate intention of immediately starting a lively conversation with this particular stranger, without regard to Miss Devereaux. But Nannie was ahead of me; bending forward, she said in her friendliest tone,—and Nancy's friendliest tone is worth hearing, I tell you,—"I read of it in the papers; it must have been very interesting."

The little woman's look of gratitude was positively pathetic.



"Yes, it was, very fine!" she said,—bending forward, and jerking her sentences out nervously,—"so many people, and such splendid speakers! I wish Mrs. Blackwood'd been there!" Then, waxing confidential, she went on in a lower key: "She and I used to be girls together,—ages ago. Then her folks took her to Europe to finish her education,—some people set such store by foreign education! We didn't meet again—though I heard of her off and on—till here, lately, when I came to New York to live. Of course—for old times' sake—I looked her up and called,—handsome house, isn't it? Seems like some people have everything,"—with a short sigh that sounded almost like a snort,—"but I must say Tilly isn't a bit stuck up over it,—never was. Say, who's she?" A quick sidelong motion of eyes and thumb in Miss Devereaux's direction gave point to this last question.

"I think her name—" began Nannie, but she was interrupted by a loud crash which seemed to come from one of the adjoining rooms. In an instant my twin was on her feet: "Oh, Felix!" she cried breathlessly, "that came from the library! Papa has knocked over something!"

The pater has an absent-minded way of upsetting things, and Nannie's tone carried conviction with it; so, as fast as I could, I followed in her wake as she threaded her way swiftly through the crowded room.

Nora raised her eyebrows with an air of mock resignation. "No use our all going," she said in an undertone as I went past her, and resumed her conversation with the gentleman to whom she had been talking.

Some people had collected in the doorway of the library by the time I got there, and I was delayed a minute or two in getting into the room; then I saw, at one glance, that our worst fears were realised. There stood my father, minus his spectacles, peering about him with a most anxious, bewildered expression on his face,—I was struck with how ill he looked! and around him on the polished floor lay the fragments of one of the Doulton bowls! The small table on which it had stood was-overturned, flowers were scattered in every direction, and among the ruins shone my father's glasses, broken in several pieces.

Nannie went straight to the pater's side and took his hand. "Felix and I are here, papa; what can we do for you?" she said. The colour was in her face; I know she felt embarrassed, but her voice was quite calm.

My father screwed up his eyes in a vain attempt to see the extent of the mischief: "I—I think—I think, my dear, that I've broken something," he said. At which very obvious statement there was a sound of smothered laughter at the door.

Nannie's colour deepened, and I believe I muttered something about finding Mrs. Blackwood; to tell the truth, I was so rattled—between sympathy for the pater and embarrassment at the accident—that I hardly knew what I was saying, but my father caught at it. "Yes, yes," he said nervously, "I must speak to our hostess; I must apologise for my awkwardness. Ask Mrs. Blackwood if she will be kind enough to step here, Felix—or stay, I will go to her."

"I'll find Mrs. Blackwood for you," volunteered one of the bystanders; but at that moment the little crowd at the door parted and in came Mrs. Blackwood, and who should be behind her but Max! I was delighted to see him. I felt that we were all right then, for Max always knows what to do; and I think Nannie felt as relieved as I did, for she gave a glad little cry as she held out her hand. Then she turned as red as a rose,—I suppose she suddenly realised how many people were looking at her; but evidently Max didn't mind them in the least, for he held on to Nannie's hand, and smiled, and looked at her just as kindly as if we were at home,—Max likes us all, but Nannie has always been his favourite.

In the mean time Mrs. Blackwood was trying, with exquisite tact, to make my father feel less uncomfortable. "It was the most absurd place to put a bowl of flowers," she asserted cheerfully, "on so slight a table, and so near the book-shelves. I've always declared that an accident would occur; now I can say, 'I told you so!' and that's such a satisfaction to a woman, you know."

She laughed merrily, but the pater still looked troubled. "It was a great piece of carelessness on my part," he repeated mournfully, for about the fifth time. "I stood looking over a volume I had taken from the shelf,—that, I am thankful to know, has not been injured" (with a hasty glance at the book still tightly clasped in his left hand),—"and becoming interested, I presume I forgot where I was, and—and leaned too heavily against the table. It gave way, and—this ruin is the result! I—I—cannot express to you how I regret the accident."

"Don't be troubled over it, dear friend, please don't," Mrs. Blackwood urged. "Nothing is broken but the bowl, and that may have been cracked before,—it seems to me that one of them was; let us rather rejoice that you were not hurt by your fall, for that would indeed have been a serious matter. Now I'm sure you want to resume looking over that 'Abbe Marite;' isn't it quaint? and perhaps among Mr. Blackwood's glasses we may be able to find a pair that would suit your eyes for the nonce. I know how perfectly lost one feels without one's 'second eyes.' Shall we make the selection? Come, Felix and Nannie,—you, too, Max,—and help us get the right focus. Oh, please don't speak of going, Mr. Rose."

Chatting pleasantly to divert my father's mind from the accident, Mrs. Blackwood led us into her husband's smoking-room, where from his collection of spectacles and eyeglasses my father made a selection which enabled him to finish the "Abbe," and soon after that to get home with some degree of comfort.

There were no more contretemps that afternoon, I am thankful to say; Max went home and dined with us. He was in fine spirits,—so glad to get home again, he said,—and made even the pater smile over a description of what he calls his "adventures in the far West." With the exception of a short visit in the study, he spent the evening with us in the schoolroom, hearing all that has happened to us since he went away, and playing violin and piano duets with Nannie and me.

I intended to have had a talk with Max about Chad, but there was no opportunity on this evening; and besides, he looked so pleased when Nora said she thought that Chad was "nice"—and she claims to be so very fastidious! I can't understand it—that I concluded I'd wait until another time to air my opinion. I noticed that Phil didn't say anything for or against Chad: all the same, I shall speak, just as soon as I can get Max alone; for, if he doesn't know it already, he ought to be told the sort of individual his ward is. As far as I'm personally concerned, I'd put up with the fellow rather than trouble Max, but I've got to think of Phil.

After Max had taken his departure, and Betty and Jack had been walked off to bed, we four older ones sat talking for a few minutes. Phil, as usual, sat on the edge of the schoolroom table. "Well, you three gay and festive creatures," he said, with a comprehensive wave of his hand toward us, "what's your true and honest opinion of the afternoon's tea-fight, politely termed 'reception'? You needn't all speak at once, you know."

"Thanks awfully for the information," laughed Nora, making him a very graceful and sweeping bow. "Well, except for the unhappy quart d'heure that papa gave us, I enjoyed the reception immensely. Oh, I'd love to be out in society," she said, with sparkling eyes, "and meet lots of people, and go to balls and receptions and all those affairs every day of my life. That's what I call living,—not this stupid, humdrum school life; and I 'll have them all, too, some day, see if I don't," she ended, with a toss of her head and a little conscious laugh. Nora knows she's pretty; that's one of the things that spoil her.

Phil eyed her severely, wrinkling up his brows. "Eleanor, my love," he remarked, with his most fatherly air, "I beg that you will bear in mind the fable of the unwise canine who lost his piece of meat by trying to catch its larger reflection in the stream, and endeavour to profit thereby. No charge made for that good advice. Now, Nancy, let's hear from you."

Nannie hesitated a little. "Why—I think I enjoyed it," she said slowly; "yes, I did."

"What! did you?" I exclaimed in surprise. "You mean to say you enjoyed sitting on that lounge and seeing Miss Devereaux snub that unfortunate little woman in the hideous bonnet?"

"Well, no, not that part," admitted Nannie.

"And did you enjoy the pater's smashing the Doulton bowl?"

"Oh, no, of course not," Nannie returned, somewhat indignantly.

"Then where did the enjoyment come in?" I persisted.

"I can't tell you why, or when, or how, but I enjoyed it," was Nannie's reply; and then, "without rhyme or reason," as nurse says, she blushed a vivid red.

"Do look at her!" teased Phil. "Why, Nancy, it isn't against the law to have enjoyed yourself. What're you blushing for?"

"I'm sure I don't know," my twinnie answered, with such a look of perplexity in her sweet, honest eyes that we had to laugh. Whereupon she blushed rosier than ever, even to her ears and her pretty throat, and running over to me, hid her flushed face on my shoulder. "Please stop teasing, Fee," she whispered.

Now if anybody was teasing just then Phil was in it, and I started to tell her so; but Phil interrupted: "One more county to be heard from," he declared, "and that's you, most noble Felix. Are you, like Nora, hankering after the unattainable in the shape of daily receptions?"

"Can't say that I'm devoured with a desire that way," I confessed with a grin. "I wouldn't go over this afternoon's experience for a farm! As they say in the novels, my feelings can be better imagined than described when I walked into the Blackwoods' library and saw the pater standing in the midst of the shattered vase a la Marius in the ruins of Carthage. Had I but owned a genii, we'd have been whisked out of that room and home in about two seconds. No, on calm reflection, I forswear receptions for the future."

"Hullo!" exclaimed Phil, suddenly, "I say,—come to think of it,—how d'you suppose the Blackwoods enjoyed the orgy?"

We looked at each other. "I said I enjoyed myself," asserted Nora, with a superior and very virtuous air. "It's the least one can do when people go to the trouble and expense of entertaining one."

Nannie sat up and looked contrite. "Poor Mrs. Blackwood!" she said; "Doulton is her favourite china, and that bowl was a beauty!"

"I guess they got the worst of it," I said to Phil.

"I shouldn't wonder if they had," he answered with a nod. "Moral: Don't give afternoon receptions. Let's be off to bed. Good-night, all."



XII.

IN THE SHADOW.

TOLD BY JACK.

Felix and I were together in his room; he was helping me with my Latin—that vile Latin, how I despise it!—when we heard some one calling from the hall two flights below. "Why, that sounds like Nannie's voice!" Felix said, starting from his chair. "I wonder what's up?"

We heard plainly enough when we got in the hall, for Nannie was calling, in a loud, frightened way, "Felix! Phil, Jack! somebody!—anybody!"

"All right! here we are! What's the matter?" Felix answered, making for the steps as fast as he could go. "Oh, pshaw! I've left my cane in the room; get it for me, Jack, and catch up to me on the stairs."

I dashed into Fee's room, snatched up the cane, and was out again in time to hear Nannie say, excitedly: "Tell nurse to come right down to the study, Felix, and send Jack flying for Dr. Archard; papa is very ill, I am afraid. Oh, be quick, quick!"

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Fee. I knew by his voice that he was awfully frightened. Then suddenly he slid down in a sitting position on one of the steps. I thought he must have stumbled; but before I could say anything, or even get to him, he called out, "All right, Nan! nurse will be there in a minute," adding impatiently to me: "What are you gaping at? Get on your hat—it's on the hat rack—and rush for Dr. Archard as fast as you can. Tell him father's very ill, and to come at once. Step lively, Jack!"

"But nurse—" I hesitated. "Shall I tell her first?"

"Do as you've been told," Fee said sharply. "I'll see to that; do you suppose I'm utterly useless? Start!" He gave me a little push on the shoulder as he spoke, and I tell you I just flew down those steps and out into the street.

I ran every step of the way, and caught Dr. Archard just as he was stepping into his carriage to go somewhere. He looked very serious when he heard my message. "I'm not surprised," he said; "I've been expecting a break-down in that quarter for some time." Then he made me jump into the carriage with him, and we drove rapidly round to the house.

There we found everybody very much excited. The study door stood open, and from the hall I could see papa lying on the lounge, with his eyes closed, and looking very white. Nurse was rubbing his feet, Nannie his hands, and Miss Marston stood by his head fanning him.



Felix and Phil were not around, but I tell you the younger children were; nurse and Miss Marston not being there to keep them upstairs, they had all collected in the hall, and refused flatly to go to the nursery. For fear of the noise they might raise, Nora couldn't very well make them obey; but after the doctor came, she and Betty half coaxed, half drove them into the drawing-room, and tried to keep them there. It was hard work to do this, though, for every now and then Paul or Alan, or even Kathie—she ought to have known better—would sneak out "to see what was going on." Then Betty'd fly out too, and as quietly as possible catch and haul back the runaway. I think both Nora and Betty would like to have had me come in there too,—Nora said as much,—but I pretended I didn't hear; I didn't want to be shut up, and anyway, as I thought, somebody ought to be on hand to run errands in case anything was needed. So I just stayed where I was.

"Oh, I am so thankful you have come!" Nannie exclaimed, as the doctor walked in. But, except for a nod, he didn't notice her; he laid his fingers on papa's pulse, then in a minute or so knelt down and put his ear to papa's chest. I was watching him so intently that I didn't know Phil had come in until I heard Nora—she was standing in the hall and holding the drawing-room doors shut—say, in a low tone, "Hush! don't make a noise; papa is ill. Dr. Archard's here—in the study."

"What's the matter?" Phil asked, opening his eyes in a startled sort of way, and looking very serious.

"Why, he complained to Nannie of feeling queer, and then suddenly fainted away; and since then he has gone from one fainting fit into another. Isn't it strange? I don't think he has ever done such a thing as faint in his life before."

"He's been working like a slave over that beastly old Fetich," Phil said irritably, "as if he was bound to get it finished."

I knew he was cross because he was scared about papa, and sorry for him; but Nora didn't seem to guess that,—she doesn't see through things like that as Nannie does,—and now she just put up her eyebrows as if surprised, and said, "Why, isn't that what you all wanted,—to have the Fetich finished?"

Phil got red in the face, and he made a step nearer the drawing-room door. "That was a mean speech, Nora," he said in a low, angry voice.

I think it was mean, too; but perhaps it was because she felt badly about papa that Nora spoke so,—as nurse says, different people have different ways of showing their feelings,—for she put out her hand and commenced, quickly, "I didn't mean to hurt—"

But while she was speaking, Nannie came out of the study. "Oh, Phil," she said, as soon as she saw him, "come right in here, won't you? the doctor says we must get papa to bed as quickly as possible, and you can help us."

Phil flung his books on the hat-rack table, and followed her into the room at once, and they shut the study door.

It opened again, though, in a minute or two, and out came Miss Marston, just in time to catch Alan as he rushed along the hall, away from Betty, who was in hot pursuit. "What are you doing down here?" demanded Miss Marston, severely.

"They're all here," Alan paused to explain, rather defiantly, whereupon Betty pounced on him.

Miss Marston held a hot-water bottle in her hand; she was on her way to the kitchen, but she stopped to speak to the children,—for at the sound of her voice Nora had opened the drawing-room doors, and Kathie, Paul, and Maedel had tumbled out into the hall in a body. "This will never do," Miss Marston said, "racing about the halls while your father is so ill! Can't you find something for them to do, Nora? Take them to the nursery, or the schoolroom, and give each—"

I didn't wait to hear the rest. I was afraid she'd see me, and remember that old Latin, so I scooted up the back stairs as hard as I could go; you see she wouldn't have taken into account that I was waiting down there in case I was wanted for an errand.

It was as I got up near Fee's room that I began to wonder where he was, and why he hadn't been downstairs with the rest of us; he must have wanted to know how papa was, I thought. I looked in the schoolroom, but he wasn't there,—the place had a deserted appearance! Then I ran down again and peeped into his room, and just think! there, flat on the floor, with his feet barely inside the doorway, lay Felix!

I was so astonished and so scared—it's a serious matter for Fee to fall, you know (he hasn't really been himself, I mean not as strong, since that day in the schoolroom, when Alan upset him)—that when I cried out, "Oh, Fee! did you fall? have you hurt yourself?" and knelt down by him, I hardly knew what I was saying or doing.



"Shut the door," Felix said; he spoke slowly, as if he were very tired. His face looked badly, too,—pale, and with black rings under his eyes away below his glasses. And there was something in the way he lay there—a limpness and helplessness—that somehow frightened me, and made me feel right away as if I ought to call nurse or somebody. But I know Fee likes to have people do as he tells them, so first I shut the door tight, then I came back and knelt down by him again. "Hadn't I better help you up, Fee?" I asked, "or shall I call"—I was going to say "Nannie or Phil," but remembered they were helping papa, and ended up with "somebody?"

But Felix only said, "How's father? Tell me about him."

He listened to all I could tell about papa; then, when I had finished, he threw his arms wide apart on the floor with a groan, and rolled his head impatiently from side to side. I just longed to do something for him,—dear old Fee!

"Don't you want to get up?" I asked again, in as coaxing a way as I could. "I could help you, you know, Fee; the floor is so hard for your back."

Then he told me. "Jack," he said, in a tired, hopeless voice that made a lump fly into my throat, "I'm in a pretty bad fix, I'm afraid; my poor old back and my legs have given out. I got a very queer feeling that time I sat down so suddenly on the steps, and after you'd gone 'twas all I could do to brace up and drag myself to this floor to call nurse. Then I crawled in here, and barely got inside the door when I collapsed. My legs gave way entirely, and down I tumbled just where you see me now." He threw his arms out again, and twisted one of his hands in the fringe of the rug on which he was lying; then presently he went on: "Do you know why I'm still lying here? do you know why, Jack? because"—his voice shook so he had to stop for a minute—"because, from my waist down, I can't move my body at all. Unless somebody helps me, I'll have to lie here all night; I'm perfectly helpless!"

I'd been swallowing and swallowing while Fee was talking, but now I couldn't stand it any longer; I felt awfully unhappy, and I just had to let the tears come. "It's that fall that's done it," I said, trying to wipe away the tears that came rushing down,—it's so girlie to cry!—"the day Alan upset you in the schoolroom! Oh, Fee, do let me call somebody to help you! Phil's downstairs, you know; oh, and the doctor,—please, please let me ask him to come up! Oh, mayn't I?"

Felix put out his hand and patted my knee in a way that reminded me of Nannie; he doesn't usually do those things. "Don't cry, Jackie-boy," he said very gently, "and don't blame Alan,—I don't believe he touched me that day; I believe now that that was an attack similar to this, only not so severe. What'll the next one be!" His voice began shaking again, but he went right on: "Now I want you to help me keep this thing quiet,—I was hoping you'd be the one to find me,—so that Nannie and the others won't have it to add to their anxiety while the pater is ill. I'm afraid he's in a bad way; I don't like the doctor's sounding his heart,—that looks as if he suspected trouble there. He has been working like a slave ever since—oh, what beasts we were to get up that Fetich joke! Poor old pater!" Felix folded his arms across his eyes and lay perfectly quiet; I think I saw a tear run down the side of his face to his ear, but I won't be sure. That just brought that horrid lump right back into my throat, but I was determined I wouldn't break down again; so I got up, and taking a pillow from the bed, brought it over to slip under Fee's head,—the floor was so hard you know.

This roused him. "You're not very big, Rosebud, but perhaps you can help me to get to bed," he said, trying to speak as if nothing had happened. "I may feel better after I'm there; who knows but this attack may wear off in a day or two, as the other did."

He spoke so cheerfully that I began to feel better, too, and I flew around and did just as he told me. First I pulled his bed right close up to where Fee lay,—it's very light,—then I made a rope of his worsted afghan, and passing it round the farthest bedpost, gave the ends to him; then, as he pulled himself up, I pushed him with all my might, and by and by he got on the bed. It was awfully hard to do, though, for the bed was on casters, and would slip away from us; but after a good while we succeeded.

"There, I feel a little better already!" he said, after I'd got him undressed. "That floor was hard, and I was there some time; yes, I do feel a little better." He took hold of the railing at the head of the bed and pulled himself a little higher on the pillows.

"Perhaps you'll be all right again in a few days, same as the last time," I suggested.

Fee's face brightened up. "That's so,—perhaps I shall," he said. "Why, Jack, you're almost as good a comforter as Nannie!" Then he took my hand as if he were going to shake hands, and holding it tight, went on with, "Now, Jack, I want you to promise me that you'll not speak about this attack of mine to anybody. As you say, I'll possibly—probably—be all over it in a few days, and there's too much sickness and trouble in the house already, without my adding to it. Promise me, Jack!" He gave my hand a little shake as he spoke.

But I hesitated; for, though now he seemed better, I couldn't get out of my mind how awfully he had looked when I first found him,—and Fee isn't strong like the rest of us. But he shook my hand again two or three times, saying impatiently, "Why don't you promise? There's no harm in doing what I ask; think how worried and anxious Phil and Nannie are about papa!"

"Yes, presently," we heard Phil's voice say at the door at that very moment.

"Promise! promise!" repeated Felix, almost fiercely, and I got so nervous—Phil was coming right into the room—that I said, "All right, I promise," almost before I knew what I was saying. I got a frightened sort of feeling the moment the words were out of my mouth, that made me just wish I hadn't said them.

"Hullo! in bed? What's up?" asked Phil in surprise, as he walked up to Fee. "I wondered where you were." Then, without waiting for an answer, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and went on, in an excited tone of voice, "Did you hear about the pater? I tell you we've had our hands full downstairs; I'm afraid he's"—here Phil stopped and cleared his throat—"he's pretty low down. Dr. Archard as much as admitted it when I asked him to tell me the truth. It's that Fetich! He has been working over it like a galley slave, because—" Phil stopped again. He and Felix looked at each other; then, starting up, Phil walked over to the other side of the room, and stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at Fee's picture of the Good Shepherd which hangs on the wall there, and which he had seen scores of times before.

"Who's going to take care of father?" Felix asked presently, and that brought Phil back to his bedside.

"The doctor is going to send us a trained nurse this afternoon," he said; "but in the mean while Nannie and nurse are with him. Every time he became conscious he asked for Nannie or spoke her name, and seemed easier when she was near him; once or twice he called her 'Margaret'!"

We were quiet for a moment or two,—that was dear mamma's name,—then Phil began again: "The nurse that's coming is a woman, and very efficient, I believe. Of course she'll have to have a certain amount of rest every day, and at those times somebody will have to take her place; so I'm going to try to be home early afternoons,—Nannie can't do everything, you know,—and sit with the pater while the nurse takes her nap. I thought perhaps we could alternate, you and I,—you're so splendid in a sick room; but I suppose I'll be as awkward as the proverbial bull in the china shop. I generally get rattled when I undertake to do anything for father, and am sure to do just what I shouldn't; so I'm not sorry you're going to be there for a change, old man." He threw his arm across Fee's poor helpless legs as he spoke, and gave one of them a little squeeze.

Fee hesitated. "I'm afraid I can't begin right away," he said slowly; "I'm not up to the mark just now, and it would be best not to depend on me for anything for at least—a week. Then, if I can, you may be sure I'll willingly take my part of the nursing."

"Why, you're not ill, are you?" exclaimed Phil. "You were all right this morning when I went out. It's just to sit in the room, you know; you could read there, I suppose, if you wanted to."

Felix coloured up at Phil's tone. "You know very well I'm not one of the sort to shirk,—I would do anything for the pater," he said quickly, "and just as soon as I can I'll take my full share in looking after and nursing him; but, as I told you, I don't feel quite up to it just now. I'm going to keep quiet for a few days,—a week, perhaps."

Fee was trying to speak in his usual way, but there was something in his voice when he said that "perhaps" that made me just long to tell Phil right out what the trouble was. As it was, maybe Phil noticed something, for he eyed Fee sharply as he asked, rather anxiously: "Look here, Felix, is there anything you're keeping back? Come to notice, you do look rather white about the gills; do you feel ill, old fellow?"

I thought everything would come out then, for I knew Fee wouldn't lie about it; and so it would, I'm pretty sure, if Paul and Alan hadn't come bouncing into the room, and Nora behind them.

The boys flew to Fee's bedside. "Oh, Fee, don't let her get us!" "Oh, Fee, do let us stay with you!" they cried at the same moment, while Alan added saucily, "she just thinks we b'long to her!"

"They're the rudest children I ever knew!" exclaimed Nora, angrily,—just as if she knew all the children in the world! "They don't know what the word, 'obedience' means. Come straight upstairs this minute,—both of you!"

She made a dive for them, but the boys were too quick for her. Alan ducked under Fee's bed, and came up on the other side with a triumphant chuckle, while Paul rolled right over Fee's legs and landed on the floor, where Phil grabbed him.

"Can't you behave yourselves, you young rascals?" demanded Phil, sternly, giving Paul's arm a shake, and catching Alan by the collar. "Just walk straight upstairs, and do as your sister tells you. Stop your noise this minute,—do you hear me?"

But instead they both roared the louder, at the same time pulling and tugging to get away. "She's just horrid!" asserted Alan, trying to wriggle out of Phil's grasp. "I just wish she'd go an' live in some other house, and never come back;" while between his sobs Judge drawled out pertly: "She thinks she can treat us like anything 'cause nurse isn't here to take our part. She won't let us do one single thing, an' she's just as cross as an old cat—so now!"

"I am, eh?" cried Nora, indignantly. "Well, like it or not, you will have to obey me. Go upstairs at once,—both of you! Make them go, Phil!"

I felt awfully sorry for them,—you see I know Nora is a nagger, she tries it on me sometimes; but they were making a horrible din. Fee looked very white; he lay with one arm folded over his eyes; and to make matters worse, in walked Betty. "Kathie has started crying, and I can't stop her," she announced, as she got in the doorway. "I'm afraid Maedel will be off in a few minutes, too, if we don't quiet Kathie; hadn't I better call Nannie?"

"Who is taking my name in vain?" said a voice that we were all glad to hear, and there was Nannie herself, smiling at us over Betty's shoulder.



XIII.

THROUGH THE SHADOW.

TOLD BY JACK.

Well, it was astonishing how things quieted down after that. Phil let go the boys, and with a shout of delight they rushed up to Nannie, and just threw themselves on her; with an arm round each, she went straight to Fee's side: "Why, Felix, are you ill? My dear, is it your back again?" As she spoke she laid her hand on his forehead, and then stroked his hair back.

"Yes," Fee said wearily, closing his eyes; "my back—and the noise!"

"Come, boys, we'll go up to the nursery and get ready for dinner. Nurse has to stay with poor papa, so I'm going to give you your dinner; and of course I want my little knights to be on their best behaviour for the occasion." Nannie drew them, still hanging on to her, toward the door.

"Oh, yes, and do stop Kathie, if you can," put in Betty. "Maedel accidentally rocked the charger on Kathie's pet doll's head and smashed it, and she's just howled ever since. Do listen!"

Sure enough, we could all hear a long, mournful wail; then another and another; if there's one thing Kathie does well, it's crying.

"What! Esmeralda Dorothea? Poor Kathie!" said Nannie; "I don't wonder she feels badly. Come, boys, we'll go up and see if we can comfort her."

The boys looked quite jubilant! holding on to Nannie's hand, Alan threw a defiant glance at Nora as he passed her, and Judge quoted in his slow, droll way: "'My dear dolly's dead! She died of a hole in her head!'"

"Instead of petting those boys, Nannie, you ought to punish them well, or give them a good scolding!" cried Nora. "They have both been exceedingly rude and disobedient to me."

Nannie looked grieved, and the boys immediately began making excuses, which Nannie heard in silence. When they had finished, she said: "We are going upstairs to get ready for dinner, Nonie; but after that, when we are all sweet and clean, these two little men will, I am sure, come to you and ask you to overlook this afternoon's behaviour. I can't think that they really meant to be rude or disobedient to sister Nora."

Nora tossed her head, but said nothing until Nannie had gone upstairs; then she remarked: "It's outrageous the way Nannie spoils the children; did you see the impertinent look Alan gave me as he went by? You will see they won't apologise,—I know they won't;" and then she, too, walked out of the room.

But they did apologise, all the same, and very soon after, too.

"Like oil on troubled waters! What a blessing that Nannie belongs to this family!" Phil said, when we three were alone again.

"Ay, thank God for her!" answered Felix, fervently; and I felt like saying so too. Really, I don't know what we'd do without Nannie to keep the peace. It isn't that we don't love one another, for we do, dearly, and we just love to be together, too; but somehow, somebody or other's sure to get into a discussion, or a fuss, or a regular quarrel, if Nannie isn't on hand to smooth things down. I don't know how it is, but she can get us to do things that we wouldn't do for any one else, and it isn't because she coaxes, for she doesn't always; sometimes she speaks right square out, and doesn't mince matters either,—but even then we don't mind. I mean it doesn't hurt as it would from somebody else. Felix says it's because she has tact, and Betty says it's because she loves us an awful lot. I think perhaps it's both.



Well, those next two weeks were just awful! Seems now as if they'd been a tremendous long nightmare. There was Fee in bed upstairs he didn't get up or stand on his feet for nearly ten days,—he couldn't, you know, his legs wouldn't hold him up, though I rubbed and rubbed them every night till I was so tired, I felt as if I'd drop. Of course I didn't let Fee know how tired I got over it, 'cause then he wouldn't have let me rub 'em so long, and I did want to do it thoroughly.

At first Fee hadn't a bit of feeling in his legs; but gradually it came back, and at last one afternoon he managed to stand on his feet, holding on to me and the furniture,—his cane wasn't any good at all at first,—and I tell you he used to press hard, though he didn't know it. You see he was anxious to be all right as soon as he possibly could, 'cause the others began to think 'twas queer he stayed in bed so long if it was nothing but his back, and he didn't want them to know what the trouble was; and besides, he felt all the time that he should be up and helping take care of papa: there was a good deal to do, though the nurse was there, for the doctor said papa shouldn't be left alone for even a minute. So they were all very busy and anxious, or they would certainly have noticed what a long time I stayed in Fee's room every afternoon, and perhaps have suspected something.

Phil was the one Fee said he was most afraid would find out, but he was a good deal in papa's room in the afternoons, and evenings he was studying, 'cause his exams, were coming on, though sometimes he went for long walks with Chad. Chad was very often at the house at this time, but he never went in to see Fee; and after the first or second time I didn't tell Fee, for he doesn't like Chad, and I could see he didn't want Phil and Chad to be together without his being there too. We don't any of us care very much for Chad,—not half or even a quarter as much as we do for Hilliard; even Betty has to admit that, for all she makes such fun of Hill's slow ways. You see Chad puts on such silly airs, pretending he's a grown-up man, when really he's only a boy,—he's only a year older than Phil. And then he talks so much about his money, and wears diamonds,—rings and pins and buttons,—fancy! As Betty says, nice men and boys don't wear diamonds like that.

Betty is awfully rude to Chad sometimes; she calls him Monsieur le Donkey, and Dresden-china-young man, and laughs at him almost to his face. I should think he'd get mad, but he just ignores her. In fact, the only one he shows any attention to is Nora; he's all the time bringing her flowers, and talking to her in his affected way, and lately he has begun to be very friendly with Phil, though I'm not sure that Phil cares very much in return,—he's so short with Chad sometimes.

But, dear me! all this isn't what I started to say; I was telling you about those awful nightmare weeks. Well, to go back, there was Fee in bed upstairs, just as brave-hearted as he could be, but getting thinner and paler every day; and there was papa in the extension—he's slept down there ever since dear mamma died—in bed too, and desperately ill. The doctor came two and three and four times a day, and the house was kept as still as could be; we just stole through the halls, and scurried up the stairs like so many mice, so's not to make any noise, and because the constant muttering that we could hear from the sick-room made us feel so badly,—at least it did us older ones, the younger children didn't understand.

Papa doesn't usually say very much; but now he was out of his head, and he just talked the whole time, and loud, so one couldn't help hearing what he said. 'Twas about the Fetich; he called it "my book," and scolded himself because he couldn't work faster on it, so's to sell it. I tell you what, that just broke Betty and Phil all up! Then he'd seem to forget that, and begin about walking in the country with mamma, through fields full of flowers and trees and "babbling brooks,"—that's what he called 'em, and quoted poetry about them all. He never once spoke of us; it was always "Margaret, Margaret!" sometimes in a glad voice, as if he were very happy, and sometimes in a sad, wailing sort of way, that brought a great lump into our throats.

Nannie had to be in papa's room most all of every day,—the nurse said he got very restless when she wasn't around,—and as he kept getting worse and worse, she was in there lots of nights, too. Her lessons, and all the other things, had to just go, and we hardly saw her except for a little while now and then, when she ran up to sit with Felix and tell him about how papa was getting on.

After a while she began to look a little pale, and her eyes got real big and bright; but she never once said she was tired, and it never occurred to any of us—you see we were all worked up over papa—until one day Max spoke of it to Felix: he said Nannie was just killing herself, and got so sort of excited over it—Max isn't one of the excitable kind—that Fee started in to worry about Nannie. It was when he had just begun to walk about a little, and he was wild to go right down and take Nannie's place in the sick-room. But he couldn't, you know; why, 'twas as much as he could do to barely stand on his feet and get round holding on to the furniture. Then, when he realised that, he got disheartened, and called himself a "useless hulk," and all sorts of horrid names, and was just as cranky as he could be; but I felt so sorry for him that I didn't mind. Poor old Fee!

Well, from day to day papa got more and more ill; the fever kept right on and he was awfully weak, and at last he fell into a stupor. That day Dr. Archard hardly left our house for even an hour, and the other physicians just went in and out all the time. Max was there, too,—he almost lived at our house those weeks, taking all the night watching they'd let him, and doing all he could for papa and us,—and about seven o'clock that evening he came up to the schoolroom, where we older ones were. Dr. Archard had told Phil, and he had told us, that a change would come very soon,—papa would either pass from that stupor into a sleep which might save his life, or he would go away from us, as our dear mother had gone.

No one of us was allowed to stay in the sick-room but Nannie, and she had promised to let us know the minute the change came; so we five and Max were waiting in the schoolroom, longing and yet just dreading what Nannie might have to tell us.

It was a glorious afternoon: the sun had just gone down, and from where we sat—close together—we could see through the windows the sky, all rose-colour and gold, with long streaks here and there of the most exquisite pale blue and green; and soft, white, fleecy clouds that kept changing their shape every minute. When I was little and heard that anybody we knew was dead, I used to sit in one of our schoolroom windows and watch the sunset, to see the angels taking the soul up to heaven,—- I thought that was the way it went up; I could almost always make out the shape of an angel in the clouds, and I'd watch with all my eyes till every speck of it had melted away, before I'd be willing to leave the window. Of course I really know better than that now, but this afternoon as we all sat there so sad and forlorn, looking at the skies, there came in the clouds the shape of a most beautiful large angel, all soft white, and with rosy, outspread wings, and I couldn't help wondering if God was sending an angel for papa's soul, or if he would let mamma come for it—she loved him so dearly!

Betty saw the angel, too, for she nudged my elbow and whispered softly, "Oh, Jack, look!"

Just then we heard a step outside, the door flew open, and Nannie came in; her face was pale, but her eyes were wide opened and shining, and when she spoke her voice rang out joyfully: "Oh, my dears, my dears!" she cried, stretching out her arms to us, "God is good to us,—papa is asleep! He will live!" Then, before anybody could say a word, she got very white, and threw out her hand for the back of Fee's chair; Phil sprang to catch her, but like a flash Max was before him. Taking Nannie right up in his arms, as if she'd been a little child, Max went over and laid her on the sofa, then knelt down by her, and began rubbing one of her hands.

Phil flew for nurse, Nora for a fan, Betty for water, and I caught up Nannie's other hand and began rubbing it, though I could scarcely reach it from where I stood almost behind Max. I could hear Fee's chair scraping the floor as he hitched himself along toward us.

Max stopped rubbing and began smoothing the loose, curly pieces of Nannie's hair off her forehead. "Dear little Nancy Lee!" I heard him say; and then, "My brave little—" I lost that word, for Nannie opened her eyes just then, and looked up at him with a far-off, wondering look; then the lids fell again, and she lay perfectly still, while Max and I rubbed away at her hands.

In a minute or two the others came trooping in with nurse and the things they'd gone for, and pretty soon Nannie was much better. She sat up and looked at us with a smile that just lighted up her whole face,—I think Nannie is so pretty! "What a goose I was to faint!" she said, "when we have such good news! Oh, isn't it splendid, splendid! that papa will get well!" Then in a minute—before we knew what she was about—she was kneeling by Felix, with her arms round his neck, crying and sobbing as if her heart would break.

And what d'you think! in about two minutes more, if we weren't every one of us crying, too! I don't mean out loud, you know,—though Nora and Betty did,—but all the same we all knew we were doing it. Phil laid his arms on the schoolroom table and buried his face in them, Fee put his face down in Nannie's neck, and I was just busy wiping away the tears that would come pouring down; nurse threw her apron over her face and went out in the hall, and Max walked to the window and stood there clearing his throat. And yet we were all very, very glad and happy; queer, wasn't it?



XIV.

A MISSION OF THREE.

TOLD BY JACK.

That was the turning-point, for after that papa began to get better; but my! so slowly: why, it was days and days, Nannie said, before she could really see any improvement, he was so dreadfully weak. After a while, though, he began to take nourishment, then to notice things and to say a few words to Nannie, and one day he asked the doctor how long 'twould be before he could get at his writing again.

The evening that Nannie came upstairs and told us about his asking the doctor this, we held a council. The "kids" were in bed, and Miss Marston was in her own room, so we had the schoolroom to ourselves; and in about five minutes after Nannie got through telling us, we were all quite worked up and all talking at once. You see we didn't want papa to begin working again on the Fetich as he had done, for Dr. Archard had said right out that that was what made him ill; and yet we didn't see, either, how we could prevent it.

"Let's steal the Fetich and bury it in the cellar," proposed Betty, after a good deal'd been said; "then he couldn't work at it, for it wouldn't be there, you know."

Her eyes sparkled,—I think she'd have liked no better fun than carrying off the Fetich; but Phil immediately snubbed her. "Talk sense, or leave the council," he said so crossly that Nannie put in, "Why, Phil!" and Betty made a horrible face at him.

Then Fee spoke up: "Say, how would it do for us, we three,—you, Phil, and Betty and I,—to tell the pater how mean we feel about that beastly joke, and then run through the potential mood in the way of beseeching, imploring, exhorting him not to slave over his work in the future as he's been doing in the past months. I have a fancy that Mr. Erveng has really made him an offer for the book when completed—"

"I'm pretty sure he has, from something Mrs. Erveng said the other day," broke in Nora, with a slow nod of her head.

"Well," went on Felix, in an I-told-you-so tone of voice, "and I suppose the pater thinks we're watching and measuring his progress like so many hungry hawks, just ready to swoop down and devour him—ach!" He threw out his hands with a gesture of disgust that somehow made us all feel ashamed, though we weren't all in it, you know.

"That isn't a bad plan," said Nora, presently. "In fact, I think it is good; only, instead of three of you going at papa about it, why not let one speak for all? He would be just as likely to listen to one as to three, and it wouldn't tire him so much,—that's my opinion. What do you think, Nannie?"

Nannie shook her head dubiously; she was lying on the sofa looking awfully tired. "I'm not sure that it'll do any good," she answered; "I'm afraid papa has made up his mind to do just so much work, and he likes to carry out his intentions, you know. But I'd speak all the same," she added, "for I think he felt dreadfully cut up over that Fetich affair, and this will show him, anyhow, that you all care more for him—his well-being, I mean—than for the money the book might bring in. I fancy he has been doubtful of that sometimes. And I agree with Nora that it would be better for one to speak for the three. He is getting stronger now, and whoever is to be spokesman might, perhaps, go in to see him for a few minutes some afternoon this week. Who is it to be,—Phil?"

"Don't ask me to do it!" exclaimed Phil; "don't—if you want the affair to be a success. I feel mortally ashamed of my share in that joke, and I agree with Felix that somebody ought to speak to the pater about working so hard, and almost killing himself; but I warn you that the whole thing will be a dead failure if I have the doing of it. In the first place, he looks so wretchedly now that I can't even look at him without feeling like breaking down; and with all that, if I undertook to say to him what I'd have to, why, I'm convinced I'd get rattled,—make an ass of myself, in fact,—and do no good whatever,—for that sort of thing always makes him mad. That's just the truth,—'tisn't that I want to shirk. Why don't you do it, old fellow?" (throwing his arm across Fee's shoulders), "you always know what to say, and can do it better than I."

But Fee didn't seem willing either; I think the chief reason was because he was afraid of the steps,—it's as much as he can do to get up the one short flight from his floor to the schoolroom, and he gets awfully nervous and cranky over even that short distance; but of course the others didn't know that, and he didn't want them to know, and I couldn't say anything, so everybody was very much surprised: even Nannie opened her eyes when, after a good deal of urging, he said sharply, "I am not going to do it, and that settles it!"

I was afraid there'd be a fuss, so I sung out quickly, "Why don't you do it, Betty? You're always saying you're equal to anything."

Well, if you had seen her face, and felt the punch she gave my shoulder! I declare Betty ought surely to've been a boy; she's entirely too strong for a girl, and rough. I will say, though, that she's been better lately; but still she breaks out every now and then, and then she hits out, perfectly regardless of whether she hurts people or not.

She just glared at me. "Me! I! I go into papa's room and make a speech to him!" she exclaimed so loudly that Phil reminded her she needn't roar, as none of us were deaf. "Why, I couldn't, I simply couldn't! I'm just as bad as Phil in a sick-room,—you all know I am; I'd tumble over the chairs, or knock things off the table, or fall on the bed, or something horrid, and papa'd have me put out. Then I'm sure matters would be worse than they are now. 'Tisn't that I'm afraid,"—with a withering glance at me,—"and I do feel awfully sorry about papa; but all the same, I don't want to be the one to speak to him about the Fetich,—I don't think it's my place: how much attention do you suppose he would pay to what I'd say?" She fanned herself vigorously, then added, in a milder tone, "Why not let Felix draw up a petition, and we could all sign it; then—eh—" with another withering glance—"Jack could take it in to papa!"

"You're a fine set!" mocked Nora; "all very sorry, very penitent, all seeing what should be done, but no one willing to do it. You are as bad as the rats who decided in council that a bell should be placed on the neck of their enemy, the cat, so that they should always have warning of her approach; but when it came to deciding on who was to do the deed, not one was brave enough."

"I suppose you think, as Nora does, that we're a pretty mean set?" Felix said to Nannie; he ignored Nora's remark, though Phil made a dash for her with the laughing threat, "Just let me catch you, Miss Nora!"

Nannie sat up and pushed her hair off her forehead; she looked pale and languid, and when she spoke, her voice sounded tired. "No," she said, "I don't think you are any of you mean; but I am disappointed: I like people to have the courage of their convictions, and particularly you, Fee."

"That's right, give it to us, Nancy,—we deserve it!" shouted Phil, coming back in triumph with Nora; but Felix coloured up, and, leaning over, laid his hand on Nannie's arm. "Perhaps if you—" he began eagerly, but he didn't say the rest, for Max and Hilliard came in just then, and Nannie got up to speak to them.

That was on a Tuesday evening, and the next afternoon, as I was going through the hall, Miss Appleton came out of the sick-room and asked if I would sit with papa for a short time, while she went to the basement to make some nourishment or something or other. "There is nothing to do but to sit somewhere about the room, within range of your father's sight," she said, as I hesitated a little,—not that I minded, but you see I was rather nervous for fear I might be asked to do things that I didn't know how to. "I won't be long, and I don't think he will need anything until I return."



Nannie was lying down with a headache, and nurse, Miss Marston, and the others were away upstairs; Phil had not yet come home; so I said, "Very well," and walked in.

Papa was lying in bed, and he did look awful!—white and thin! He put out his hand as I went up to the bed, and said with a little smile, "Why, it is Jack! how do you do, my dear?" then he drew me down and kissed me. I would love to have told him how very, very glad I was that he was better, but I choked up so I couldn't get out a word. I just stood there hanging on to his hand, until he drew it away and said, "Take a seat until the nurse returns."

Miss Appleton had told me to sit where papa could see me, so I took a chair that somebody had left standing near the foot of the bed, and in full view of him.

It was very quiet in the room after that; papa lay with his eyes closed, and I could see how badly he looked. He was very pale,—kind of a greyish white,—his eyes were sunk 'way in, and there were quite big hollows in his temples and his cheeks. I wondered if he knew that he had nearly died, and that we had prayed for him in church; then I thought of the figure of the angel that we'd seen in the clouds that afternoon in the schoolroom, and of the Beautiful City—"O mother dear, Jerusalem"—where everything is lovely and everybody so happy, and I wondered again if papa were sorry or glad that he was going to get better. You see he would have had dear mamma there, and been with the King "in His felicity;" but then he wouldn't have had the Fetich or his books!

Suddenly papa opened his eyes and looked at me. "Jack," he said, "suppose you take another seat,—over there behind the curtain. I will call you if I need anything."

He told Nannie afterward—and she told me, so I shouldn't do it again—that I'd "stared him out of countenance." I was awfully sorry; I wouldn't have done such a rude thing for the world, you know,—I didn't even know I was doing it; but, as I've told you before, when I'm alone with papa, I somehow just have to look and look at him.

I'd hardly taken my seat behind the curtain when the door opened and Fee came slowly in. He leaned heavily on his cane and caught on to the different pieces of furniture to help him make his way to papa's bedside. They just clasped hands, and for a minute neither of them said a word; then Felix began: "Oh, sir, I thank God that you are spared,"—his voice shook so he had to stop.

Papa said gently: "More reference-making for you, my lad; I am evidently to be allowed to finish my work." And then Fee began again.

He didn't say a great deal, and it was in a low tone,—a little slow, too, at first, as if he were holding himself in,—but there was something in his voice that made my heart swell up in me as it did that day I thrashed Henderson. It's a queer feeling; it makes one feel as if one could easily do things that would be quite impossible at any other time.

"I hope I'll not tire or agitate you, sir," Fee said, "but I feel I must tell you, for Phil, Betty, and myself, how utterly ashamed we are of that miserable, heartless joke we got off some months ago,—going to Mr. Erveng about your book; no, father, please let me go on,—this ought to have been said long ago! We earnestly ask your forgiveness for that, sir; the remembrance of it has lain very heavy on our hearts in these last anxious weeks—"

He stopped; I guess there was a lump in his throat,—I know what that is! And presently papa said, very gently: "That did hurt me, Felix; but I have forgiven it. It may be that the experience was needed. I am afraid that I forgot I owed it to my children to finish and make use of my work."

"No, no!" exclaimed Felix, vehemently. "Don't feel that way, father; oh, please don't! We hope you won't ever work on it again as you have been working,—to run yourself down, to make yourself ill. We beg, we implore that you will take better care of yourself. Let the book go; never finish it; what do we care for it, compared to having you with us strong and well once more! Oh, sir, if you really do forgive us, if you really do believe in the love of your children, promise us that you will not work as you've been doing lately!"

He waited a minute or two; then, as papa said nothing, he cried out sharply: "We are—her—children, sir; for her sake do as we ask!"

"Why do you want this—why do you want me to live?" papa asked slowly.

"Why? Because we love you!" exclaimed Fee, in surprise.

And then I heard papa say, "My son!" in such a tender voice; and then,—after a while,—"I am under a contract to finish my book, and I must do it; but I will endeavour to work less arduously, and to look more after my health."

Here I think Fee must have kissed him,—it sounded so. "I shall have good news for the others," he said. "You know, sir, Phil and Betty feel as keenly about this as I do, but, for fear it would tire you, it was thought best for only one of us to speak to you about the matter. You don't feel any worse for our talk,—do you, father?" He said this anxiously, but papa said no, it hadn't done him any harm; still, he added, Felix had better go, and so he did in a few minutes. I felt so sorry when I thought of all the steps he'd have to climb to the schoolroom; I wondered how he'd ever get up them.

Well, after that I think papa had a nap; anyway, he was very quiet. It was pretty stupid for me behind that curtain, and I was just wishing for about the tenth time that Miss Appleton would put in an appearance, when the door opened suddenly, and who should come walking in but Phil!

He went straight up to papa, and began rather loud, and in a quick, excited sort of way,—I could tell he was awfully nervous,—"How d'you feel to-day, sir?" Then, before papa had time to answer, he went on: "We were talking things over last evening, and—and we—well, sir, we—that is, Felix, Betty, and I—feel that we're at the bottom of this illness of yours, through our getting up the scheme about the Fet—your book, you know—in going to Mr. Erveng. It was the cheekiest thing on our part! I deserve to be kicked for that, sir,—I know I do. And we're afraid—we think—you're just killing yourself! I'm a blundering idiot at talking, I know, so I might's well cut it short. What I want to say is this: We'd rather have you living, sir, and the—history—never finished, than have it finished, with no end of money, and you dead. Oh, father, if you could know how we felt that night when your life hung in the balance!" He broke right down with a great sob.

Then everything was so quiet again that I looked round the portiere; Phil knelt by the bedside with his face buried in the bed-clothes, and papa's hand was resting on his head.

I let the curtain fall. I felt, perhaps, they'd rather I didn't look at them.

Then presently papa said quite cheerfully, "It will be all right, Phil: I think I am going to get well, and I shall try to take better care of myself; so you will, I hope, have no further occasion to be troubled about my health. I appreciate your speaking frankly to me, as you have done. Now, perhaps, you had better go; I am a little tired."

Phil shook hands with papa and started to go, but paused half-way to the door. "This is for Felix and Betty, as well as for myself, father," he said pleadingly. "They feel just as badly as I do about you, but we thought 'twas best for one to speak for the three; and I being the eldest,—you understand?"

"Yes," papa said gently, "I understand."

As the door closed behind Phil, papa called me. "Jack," he said, in a weak voice, "it seems to me that Miss Appleton is gone a good while; perhaps you had better give me something,—I think I am tired."

My! didn't I get nervous! There was nothing on the table but bottles and a medicine glass; I didn't know any more than the man in the moon what to give him, and I didn't like to ask him. I was pretty sure he didn't know; and besides, he had shut his eyes. I caught up one of the bottles and uncorked and smelled it without in the least knowing what I intended doing next. How I did wish the nurse would come! Just then some one came into the room, and when I turned quickly, expecting to see Miss Appleton, who was it but Betty!

Well, I was so surprised, I nearly dropped the bottle. But she didn't even look at me; she just marched up to papa and began talking.

She stood a little distance from the bed,—she said afterward she was afraid to go nearer for fear she'd shake the bed, or fall on it,—with her hands behind her back, and she just rattled off what she had to say as if she'd been "primed," as Phil calls it. Without even a "how d'you do?" she plunged into her subject. That's Betty all over; she always goes right to the point. "Papa," she said earnestly, "I'm awfully—that is, very, very sorry we went to Mr. Erveng that time about your book, without first speaking to you about it. We're all very sorry,—Phil, Felix, and I,—and just as ashamed as we can be. We've worried dreadfully over it, and about you, and it was simply awful when we thought you were going to die! We didn't acknowledge it to one another, but if you had died, I know we three'd have felt as if we had as much as killed you" (here Betty's voice dropped to almost a whisper; I thought perhaps she was going to cry, but she didn't, she just went on louder); "for we are sure you never would have hurried so with—your book—if we hadn't played that mean joke. You see, papa, we're so afraid you'll—you'll—die, or be ill, or something else dreadful if you don't stop working so hard,—like a galley slave, as Phil says. And I've come to ask you, for Phil, Felix, and myself, to let the hateful old book go, and just get well and strong again; will you?"

"But if the history is completed, it can be sold, and thus bring in the money that is so much needed in the family."

Betty eyed papa; I think she wasn't sure whether he was in sarcasm or earnest. "Oh," she said, "we did think it would be nice to have enough money to send Fee to college, but we don't want it any more,—at least, not if it's to come by your being ill—or—or—oh, papa, dear, we're all so very glad and thankful that you are going to get well." She took his hand up carefully and kissed it.

"I think that now I am glad, too, Betty," said papa; "much more so than I ever expected to be."

"And you won't work so hard again, will you?" asked Betty, anxiously. "You see, papa, I'm to get you to promise that; that's what I've come for. We talked the matter over last evening, and Phil would have come to speak to you about it, but he said you looked so wretchedly—and so you do—that just to look at you made him break down, and he was afraid he'd get rattled and make an a—a mess of it. Then Felix, he couldn't come, because, well, because—I guess he felt badly, too, about your being ill. So I thought I'd better come down and have a talk with you, though I must say I was afraid I might do something awkward,—I'm so stupid in a sick-room; but so far all's right, isn't it? The boys don't know I've come,—I thought I'd surprise them; and so I will, with the good news: you'll promise, won't you, papa?"

"Yes," papa said, "I promise."

Then Betty flew at him and kissed him, and then papa told her she'd better go. It was only just as she got to the door that she spied me. "Hullo! you here?" she exclaimed in astonishment,—adding, in a lower tone, "What're you laughing at?" Then, as I didn't answer, she walked out.

"Jack," called papa, "are there anymore of them to come? Do you suppose they are crazy?" Then he added to himself, "I wonder if any one else in the world has such children as I have?" We looked at each other for a minute or two (papa's eyes were bright, and his mouth was kind of smiley, and I was, I know, on a broad grin), and then we both laughed,—papa quietly, as he always does; but I cackled right out, I couldn't help it.

At this moment in came Miss Appleton with papa's nourishment, and right behind her Nannie.

"Oh, how bright you look!" Nannie exclaimed with delight, as she came up to him; "that last medicine has certainly done you good."

"Yes, I think it has," papa said, with a quizzical glance at me. "It was a new and unexpected kind; Nannie, my dear,—I have had a visitation."



XV.

SOME MINORS.

TOLD BY JACK.

Instead of going in the country early, as usual, this year we just hung on and hung on until the weather was quite warm, waiting for papa to get strong enough to stand the journey. It seemed to us as if he were an awful while getting well: long after he was able to be dressed, he had to lie on the lounge for the greater part of every day,—the least exertion used him up; and as for his work, Dr. Archard said he wasn't to even think of touching it. But at last—after changing the date several times—a day was set for us to start. We were all delighted; we love to be at the Cottage. You see we have no lessons then, 'cause Miss Marston goes away for her holidays, and we can be out of doors all day long if we choose; papa doesn't mind as long as we're in time for meals and looking clean and decent. There's a lovely cove near our house,—it isn't deep or dangerous,—and there we go boating and swimming; then there's fishing and crabbing, and drives about the country in the big, rattly depot-wagon behind Pegasus,—that's our horse, but he's an awful old slow-poke,—and rides on our donkey, G. W. L. Spry. Oh, I tell you now, it's all just splendid! We always hate to go back to the city.

Perhaps you think our donkey has a queer name. Most people do until we explain. Well, his real name is George Washington Lafayette Spry,—so the man said from whom papa bought him,—but that was such a mouthful to say that Fee shortened it to G. W. L. Spry, and I do believe the "baste," as cook calls him, knows it just as well as the other name,—any way, he answers to it just as readily. He is pretty spry when he gets started, but the thing is to start him.



Well, to go back, we were delighted at the prospect of getting away, and we all worked like beavers helping to get ready. Miss Marston and the girls and Phil packed,—his college closed ever so long ago,—Fee directed things generally, and addressed and put on tags, and we children ran errands. Almost everything was ready; in fact, some of the furniture had gone,—there're such a lot of us that we have to take a pile of stuff,—when two unexpected things happened that just knocked the whole plan to pieces.

For a good while Max had been urging and urging papa to go to his place in the Adirondacks; he said his mother was there, and she was first-rate at taking care of sick people, and that she'd be awfully glad to see Nannie, too, who, Max declared, needed the change as much as ever papa did. But papa refused, and it was settled that we were all to go to the Cottage, when suddenly Dr. Archard turns round and says that mountain, not sea air was what papa should have, and insisted so on it that at last papa gave in and accepted Max's invitation for Nannie and himself. So then it was arranged that papa, Nannie, and Max were to go to the mountains, and we to the Cottage with Miss Marston,—they going one day, and we the next.



That was the first set-back, and the next one was ten times worse. Just as papa was being helped down the steps to the carriage, what should come but a telegram for Miss Marston from her aunt in Canada, asking her to come right on. Well, that just upset our going in the country! Phil and Felix told papa they could manage things, and get us safely to the Cottage,—and I'm sure they'd have done it as well as ever Miss Marston could, for she's awfully fussy and afraid of things happening; but no, papa wouldn't hear of it, though Max declared he thought 'twould be all right. Felix took it quietly, but Phil got kind of huffy, and said papa must think he was about two years old, from the way he treated him. I tell you, for a little while there Nannie had her hands full,—what with trying to smooth him down, and to keep papa from getting nervous and worked up over the matter.

Well, after a lot of talking, and papa losing one train, it was arranged that we should remain in the city with nurse until we heard from Miss Marston, and knew how long she'd be likely to stay in Canada. If only a short time,—say ten days,—we were to wait for her return and go under her care to the Cottage; but if she'd be gone several weeks, then Phil, Felix, and nurse would take us to the country. As soon as this was settled, papa, Nannie, and Max went off, and a little later Miss Marston started for her train.

Besides being worried about her aunt, Miss Marston felt real sorry at leaving us so hurriedly, and she gave no end of directions to Nora and Betty, to say nothing of nurse. Nora didn't seem to mind this, but nurse sniffed—she always does that when she doesn't like what people are telling her—and Betty got impatient; you see Nannie'd been drilling Betty, too,—telling her to be nice to Nora, and to help with the little ones, and all that,—and I guess she'd got tired of being told things.

"I know just how Phil feels about papa's snubbing," she said to me. "Some people never seem to realise that we're growing up. Why, if papa and Miss Marston should live until we were eighty and ninety years old, I do believe, Jack, that they'd still treat us as if we were infants,—like the story Max told us of the man a hundred and ten years old, who whipped his eighty-year-old son and set him in a corner because he'd been 'naughty'! It's too provoking! And as to being 'nice' to Nora, I feel it in my bones that she and I will have a falling out the very first thing; she'll put on such airs that I'll not be able to stand her!"

But as it turned out, there was something else in store for Betty; that same evening over came Mr. Erveng and Hilliard with an invitation from Mrs. Erveng for Betty to go to their country home, near Boston, and spend a month with them. Mr. Erveng had met papa in the railroad station that day, and got his consent for Betty to accept the invitation. So all she had to do was to pack a trunk and be ready to leave with them the next morning,—they would call for her.

I felt awfully sorry Betty was going: though there are so many of us, you've no idea what a gap it makes in the family when even one is away; and, with all her roughness and tormenting ways, Betty is real nice, too. I didn't actually know what I'd do with both Nannie and her away. I couldn't help wishing that the Ervengs had asked Nora instead of Betty, and I know Betty wished so, too, for you never saw a madder person than she was when she came upstairs to help nurse pack her trunk: you see she didn't dare make any objections, as long as papa had given his consent, but she didn't want to go one step, and she just let us know it. "I'll have to be on my company manners the whole livelong time, and I simply loathe that," she fumed. "Mrs. Erveng won't let me play with Hilliard, I'm sure she won't, 'that's so unladylike!'"—mimicking Mrs. Erveng's slow, gentle voice,—"and I never know what to talk to her about. I suppose I'll have to sit up and twirl my thumbs, like a regular Miss Prim, from morning to night. Why didn't they ask you?" wheeling round on Nora. "You and Mrs. Erveng seem to be such fine friends, and you suit her better than I do. I always feel as if she looked upon me as a clumsy, overgrown hoiden, an uncouth sort of animal."

"I couldn't very well be spared from home just now," answered Nora, calmly, with her little superior air; "and any way, I presume Mrs. Erveng asked the one she wanted,—people generally claim that privilege." So far was all right; but she must needs go on, and, as Phil says, "put her foot in it." "I really hope you'll behave yourself nicely, Betty," she continued, "for only the other day I heard Mrs. Erveng say that she thought you had improved wonderfully lately; do keep up to that reputation."

Betty was furious! "No, really? How very kind of her!" she burst out scornfully. "The idea of her criticising me,—and to you! You ought to be ashamed not to stand up for your own sister to strangers! Indeed, I'll do just as I please; I'm not afraid of Mrs. Erveng! I'll slide down every banister, if I feel like it, and swing on the doors, too, and make the most horrible faces; you see if I don't come home before the month is out!"

"Leave their house standing, Elizabeth,—just for decency's sake, you know," advised Phil.

We were all laughing, and what does Nora do but pitch into me for it. "Can't you find anything better to do, Jack, than encouraging Betty to be rude and unladylike?" she commenced sharply; but just then Hannah came, asking for something, and, with a great air of importance, Nora went off with her.

But if Nora didn't understand how Betty felt, I did. Of course the Ervengs meant it kindly asking her; but I wouldn't have wanted to go off alone visiting people that were almost strangers,—for that's what Mr. and Mrs. Erveng are to us, though we do know Hilliard so well,—and I just said so to her, and gave her my best feather-top. As I told her, she might play it times when she was alone in her own room, to keep up her spirits. I'd have given her something nicer, but all my things were packed up, except my locomotive, and I knew she wouldn't care for that,—she's always making fun of it.

Betty's one of the kind that just hate to cry where people can see them, so she went away without the least fuss—though I know her heart was full—when the Ervengs called for her the next morning. Hilliard was as merry as a lark. "It's so good of you to come," he said, beaming on Betty when he met her on the steps. "We are going to take the very best care of you, and help you to enjoy yourself immensely; I only wish all the others were coming with us, too,"—with a glance at us (the whole family had crowded out on the stoop to see Betty off).

"We don't want to; we'd rather go to the Cottage," sung out Alan. Nora had to hush him up.

Hilliard was just as nice as he could be, putting Betty into the carriage, and looking after her things,—I hadn't thought he could be so polite; but Betty was very cool and snippy, and the last sight I got of her, as the carriage turned the corner, she was sitting bolt upright, looking as stiff as a poker. I felt sorry for Betty, and I felt sorry for the Ervengs, too,—at least for Hilliard. I can't think why Betty doesn't like him better.

We were awfully lonely and unsettled for a few days,—it seemed so queer to have Nora in Nannie's place, and Phil at the head of the table; to hear Nora giving orders, and for Phil to have to see to shutting up the house nights. Somehow it made us feel grown-up,—it was such a responsibility, you know; and at first we were all very quiet, and so polite to one another that nurse declared she "wouldn't 'a' known we was the same fam'ly." Felix and Phil were as dignified as could be, and the little ones went to bed without a murmur, and obeyed Nora like so many lambs. But it didn't last,—it couldn't, you know, for we weren't really happy, acting that way; and pretty soon we began to be just as we usually were,—only a little more so, as we boys say.

You see nobody was really head, though Nora and Phil both pretended they were,—we didn't count nurse,—and each person just wanted to do as he or she pleased, and of course that made lots of fusses. Phil did a lot of talking, and ordered people around a good deal, but nobody minded him very much. Nora had her hands full with the children; they were awfully hard to manage, particularly Kathie,—her feelings get hurt so easily. Nora said that nurse spoiled them, and in a sort of way took their part against her, while nurse said Nora was too fond of "ordering," and that she nagged them; so there were rumpuses there sometimes. I read over all my favourite books that weren't packed up, and worked on my steam engine, and went about to see what the others were doing; but I tried not to be mixed up in any of the rows. Fee got a fit of painting,—he wanted Nora to pose for him for Antigone, but she wouldn't; and he played his violin any time during the day that he liked,—you see there wasn't anybody there to mind the noise.

That was in the day; in the evenings we—Nora and we three boys—sat on the stoop, it was so warm indoors. The Unsworths and Vassahs and 'most all the people we knew were out of town, and Chad Whitcombe was the only person that came round to see us. When he found we hadn't gone to the country, he'd make his appearance every evening, and sit with us on the stoop. At first he stayed the whole evening, and was so pleasant and chatty I could hardly believe 'twas Chad; of course he was affected,—he always is,—but still he was real interesting, telling about places he'd been to, and some of the queer people he'd met in his travels. After a while, though, he began to stay for about half the evening, then he'd ask Phil to take a walk with him, and away they would go; and sometimes Phil wouldn't get back very early either.

Well, Felix stood it for a few times without saying anything,—he always has precious little to do with Chad; but one evening when Chad stood up and asked, "Take a stroll—aw—will you, Phil?" and Phil rose to go, Fee got quickly on his feet. "Just let me get my cane, and I'll come, too," he said.

I was looking at Chad just then, and I could see he didn't like it; but Phil answered at once, "All right, old fellow; come on!" And Fee went.

I was alone on the stoop when the boys got back,—Chad wasn't with them. Nora was playing the piano in the drawing-room, and Phil went in to speak to her; but Felix sat down on the step beside me with his back against the railing. As the light from the hall lamp fell on him, I could see how white and tired he looked. I couldn't help saying something about it. "You do look awfully used up, Fee," I said; "I guess you've been walking too far. Whatever made you do it? You know you can't stand that sort of thing."

Of course I didn't say this crossly,—Fee isn't at all the sort of person that one would say cross things to,—but you see I knew just how miserable he'd been, and that he wasn't well yet, by any means. He pretended to be quite well, but I noticed that he sat down lots of times, instead of standing, as he used to, and that it was still an effort for him to go up and down stairs. When I said that about his being tired, he pushed his straw hat back off his face, and I could see his hair lying wet and dark on his white forehead. "I am dead tired," he said, wearily. "I tell you, Jack, the ascent to the third floor seems a formidable undertaking to-night." Then he added abruptly, "Why did I do it? Because I'm determined"—he brought his clinched hand down on the stoop—"that that scalawag sha'n't get hold of Phil. I suppose my miserable old back'll take its revenge to-morrow; but I don't care,—I'd do it again and again, if I couldn't keep them apart any other way."

Just then Phil's voice came to us through the open drawing-room window. "It's a lovely night," he was saying to Nora; "I don't feel a bit like going to bed,—I think I'll go out again for a little while. You needn't wait up for me, Nonie, and I'll see to the shutting up of the house when I come in; don't let Fee bother about it,—he looks tired."

With a quick exclamation, Felix caught hold of the railing of the stoop, and dragging himself to his feet, limped into the parlour. "It's an age since we've sung any of our duets, Phil," he called; "let's have some now. Nora, play 'O wert thou in the cauld blast,'—that's one of our favourites." And in a minute or two they were singing away with all their might.

But presently Phil came out with his hat on, and behind him Felix. "Still here, Jack? It's getting pretty late!" Fee said. Then to Phil, "I guess it's too late for another tramp to-night, Philippus; come on, let's go upstairs." He was trying to speak off-hand, but I could hear in his voice the eagerness he was trying to keep back.

Perhaps Phil heard it, too, and suspected something, for he answered very shortly, "I'm going out; I'm not an infant to be put to bed at eight o'clock." And with that he jammed his hat tighter on his head, ran down the stoop, and was soon out of sight.