FELIX," said the pater, "your two elder sisters are to go with me on Thursday afternoon to Mrs. Blackwood's reception, and I should like you to accompany us; Phil went the last time—" He stopped abruptly, with a stifled sigh, and began hastily turning over the leaves of the book which lay open before him on his desk.

I knew why he sighed; I remembered well who had been with him the last time he attended a reception at Mrs. Blackwood's; the awful, aching longing that I have so often to fight down has taught me something of what my father must suffer. If I could only have expressed what was in my heart! but all I could manage to get out was, "Very well, sir," and my voice sounded so cold and indifferent that I was ashamed.

I'm not afraid of the pater,—I can talk easily enough to him on ordinary subjects; but when it comes to anything about which I feel very deeply, Nannie is the only person to whom I can bear to speak, now that she is gone. And even to Nannie I can't say much; I wish I could,—it would be a relief sometimes. I envy the others that they can talk of—mother; it is a comfort to me to listen, but it cuts me to the heart to even say her name. So this afternoon I sat quietly at Nannie's table, and went on sorting the references I had been making for the Fetich, until my father got up from his desk and began pacing up and down the study floor, with his hands clasped behind his back. His head was bent forward, and he had evidently entirely forgotten that I was in the room; for he sighed heavily several times, and then, with a sudden straightening of his whole body, as if in acute physical pain, he threw back his head, and a low, quivering "A-a-h!" that was like a groan, broke from his lips.

An iron hand seemed clutching my throat, and I could hardly see for the blur across my eyes, as I crept out of the room and closed the door softly.

I sat on the steps for a few moments, then—for I had forgotten my cane in the study—went slowly upstairs, and that gave me a chance to recover myself before I reached the schoolroom; though perhaps Nannie noticed something unusual,—my twinnie's eyes are so sharp, and her heart is so tender,—for it seemed to me that her voice was very loving as she said, pushing forward our big old rocker as soon as I entered the room: "You naughty Fee! you've come up without your cane; you must be tired. Sit here and get rested."

I was tired,—unusually so,—and was glad to get into the chair. It was after school hours, and the clan was in full force. Nora was seated at my easel, humming "A Media Noche," and trying to copy her birthday picture; Betty and Jack were fencing,—at least, Betty was making furious lunges at Jack, which he was mainly occupied in dodging, while every now and then a vehement protest was heard, such as, "Now, Betty, look out! that was my head," or, "That came within an inch of my nose—I do wish you'd be careful!" Kathie and the twins were playing house, holding lively conversations in a high key, while Alan paid them repeated visits, prancing around the room, and to their door, on a broomstick, which was his fiery steed, and to control which required both voice and whip; Nannie was hunting through our pile of violin music for a certain duet to play with Max when he got home; and in the midst of all the noise Phil lay on the sofa, his head nearly level with the seat, and his long legs extended over the arm, reading Virgil aloud.

That's his way of studying,—a most annoying one to a nervous person!—and, as the noise around him increases or decreases, so he raises or lowers his voice. As may be easily understood, there are times when he fairly roars.

The news of the reception had preceded me, and as I came in Phil reared his head in such a comical way to speak to me that Betty instantly declared that he looked like a turtle. "So you're booked for the Blackwood tea-fight," he said. "Well, old man, my sympathy for you is only equalled by my thankfulness that I am not the victim. Take my advice,—I've been there several times, you know, and you haven't,—fortify the inner man before you go. It's a very mild orgy,—a thimbleful of chocolate and one macaroon are all you'll get,—and coming between luncheon and dinner, I'm afraid you'll feel—as I did—as if you'd like to fall on the table and eat up all that's on it." His head fell back, and he resumed his reading, the book resting upright on his chest.

"People are not supposed to gorge themselves at an afternoon reception," remarked Nora, before I could get a word in. "It is—"

"'A feast of reason and a flow of soul,'" finished Nannie, smiling, "though I'm sure dear old Mrs. Blackwood would willingly have given you a pound or two of macaroons and a whole pitcher full of chocolate, had she known you were hungry."

"Oh, I'm not saying a word against her in particular; she's a first-rate old party," commenced Phil, but he was instantly interrupted.

"Phil, you are positively vulgar," cried Nora, in a tone of disgust.

"Don't speak of our dear old friend in that way, Phil; it isn't nice," said Nannie.

"Well, now, here's a queer thing," remarked Phil, in an argumentative tone. "If I'd said Mrs. Blackwood was 'a host in herself,' it would have been considered a delicate compliment; and yet when I call her a 'party,' which certainly means a host, you two jump on me. There's no accounting for the eccentricities of the feminine character." Then, as his head sank back, "I do believe somebody's been pulling the feathers out of this sofa pillow; there can't be two dozen left in it. I suppose Betty's been making an Indian head-dress for herself. Just poke that history under my head, will you, Jack? or I'll certainly get rush of blood to the brain. There, that's better! Why so silent, most noble Felix?" with a sidelong glance at me after settling himself. "Art filled with fears for Thursday's function?"

Usually I enjoy Phil's nonsense, and talk as much of it as he does; but somehow I didn't feel in the mood for it this afternoon. One reason may have been because of the dreadfully tired feeling that had come over me since entering the schoolroom: it was really an effort for me to answer him; I felt as if I wanted only to be let alone, and I realised, without being able to control it, that my voice was very irritable as I said briefly, "One has got to be silent when you begin to gabble."

Phil reared his head again, and looked at me. "Whew!" he whistled, "aren't we spicy this afternoon!" Nannie immediately rushed into conversation.

"Mrs. Blackwood wrote papa that she and Mr. Blackwood had just received some very rare old books from Europe," she said, "among them a Chaucer,—and beside that, a charming Corot; so, Fee, both you and papa will have something to enjoy, while Nora and I are exchanging small-talk."

"Oh, that's why papa was so willing to go to the reception," Nora remarked, with her usual brilliancy. "I might have known there was something like that about it."

Willing! I thought of what had happened in the study that afternoon—poor old pater! I felt like saying something sharp to Miss Nora, but it was actually too much trouble to speak; I was so tired, and the chair was so comfortable, that I did not want even to think of any exertion.

By this time Nannie had found her duet, and she came and stood by my chair, looking anxiously at me. "Fee, dear," she said in an undertone, "don't you feel well? Tell me." Her fingers stole up and gently stroked the hair behind my ear. "Tell me, Fee," she pleaded.

"I only want—to be let alone," I said, but not unkindly. I didn't mean to be disagreeable to her, and I think she understood,—she is so quick of comprehension!

At this moment there was an outcry from one of the fencers. "If you aren't the meanest girl I know!" cried Jack. "You don't seem to care how much you hurt a person. I won't play another minute, now, then!" and his stick rattled on the floor.

"She's given me a horrid poke in the ribs," he said, coming over to Nannie, with his hand pressed to his side. "I tell you now, it hurts; and she doesn't care a rap,—rough thing!"

Betty was laughing immoderately. "Poor wounded warrior!" she mocked; "he's taken his 'death of danger' ever since we began. What a baby you are, Jack! I'd just like to give you something to make a fuss about. Ho, there! defend thyself, Sir Knight."

She bore down on him with upraised stick, but Jack dodged behind Nannie. "Now stop, I tell you, Betty!" he cried sharply. "Go away! I'm not playing; you're too disagreeable."

"Oh, come, Miss Elizabeth, do behave yourself," said Nannie.

But Betty kept dancing around Jack, and making thrusts at him. "Hie thee hither, my squires," she called to the younger boys. "Come on, Sir Paul, come on, Sir Alan, and we'll capture this recreant knight."

"You ought to be sent to boarding-school, where you'd be made to behave yourself!" "Fair play, Elizabeth; don't hurt our Rosebud;" and "I'd just like to see 'em try it," came simultaneously from Nora, Phil, and Jack.

But the "squires" had no intention of interfering; they had pressing affairs of their own to look after. One of the dolls having suddenly developed a complication of diseases,—measles, scarlet fever, and whooping cough,—the heads of the household were after the doctor in hot haste. Sir Paul had mounted the "charger," and was urging him on at his highest speed, while Sir Alan came dashing toward us on his broomstick, thrashing his steed without mercy, and shouting, "Gee up, horsie, g-e-e up!" at the top of his voice.

At this juncture the door opened, and in stepped nurse. "Lors-a-me! Bedlam let loose!" she exclaimed, putting up her hands and looking as surprised as if this noisy state of things were not of daily occurrence. "Master Felix, your pa'd like to see you 'bout some referumces,—or something like that. Come, children, it's time to get ready for your dinner. Oh, come now,—I ain't got no time to waste; to-morrow you c'n get the doctor—come!"

As I sat up and took hold of the arms of the rocker, as a preliminary to rising, Nannie said, coaxingly: "Mayn't I go down and explain to papa about those references? You could tell me, you know, Fee. Then you could go to your room and lie down for a little while before dinner,—you look so tired."

"I am tired," I answered slowly, "awfully tired. And I really don't know why I should feel so. I've not done any more or as much as usual to-day. No, Nan, I think I'll go down; but first I'll get ready for dinner, and that will spare another trip up and down the stairs. I'll go to bed early to-night, and that'll make me all right to-morrow." So saying, I stood up and took a step forward; just then Alan, who had escaped from nurse and taken another gallop around the room, came kicking and prancing up on his restive steed. He rushed by with a great flourish, whirling the end of the broomstick as he got near me; nurse made a dive at him, and the next moment I was in a heap on the floor!

I wasn't hurt, except for a sharp rap on one elbow, and my first impulse was to call out and reassure the family, for they were frightened; but though I could hear all that went on,—in a far-off way, as if I were in a dream,—to my great surprise I found that I could neither move nor speak, nor even open my eyes!

Like a flash, Nannie was beside me on the floor, crying, "Oh, Fee! are you hurt?" and trying to slip her little hands under my shoulder. Nora and Betty immediately began scolding Alan, who protested vehemently, "I didn't hit him; no, I didn't, truly I didn't." I heard Jack's nervous demand, "Oh, do, somebody, tell me what to do for him!" and Phil's startled exclamation, "Great CÆsar's ghost!" and the thud with which his Virgil fell on the floor. Then I felt his strong arms under me, and I was lifted and laid on the sofa.

"Are you hurt, old fellow? are you, Fee?" Phil asked anxiously, bending over me.

"Mebbe he's faint like; open the window, Master Phil! Children, don't crowd round your brother so," said nurse. "There, now, fan him, an' I'll bring some water." As she turned away I heard her say,—nurse never can whisper,—"I don't like his looks; go tell your pa, Master Phil, an' ask him if you can run for the doctor."

Nannie's fingers tightened round my hand. "O-o-h, my dear!" she whispered.

The quiver in her voice told me that she, too, had heard nurse's remark, and that she was frightened,—my little twinnie! I think she would willingly any time suffer pain to spare me. I longed to comfort her, to tell them all that I was not at all hurt, that I had no pain whatever,—even the backache, which is my almost daily companion, having left me since the fall,—yet the terrible languor which controlled me seemed almost too great to be overcome. Then I thought of poor Nannie, and the pater, and the doctor, and the beastly fussing and restrictions I'd have to endure, and with a desperate effort—for my tongue really felt heavy—I managed to get out, "I'm—not—hurt. Don't—need—doctor."

Nannie gave a little gasp when I spoke, and catching my two hands in hers, kissed them.

"You old humbug!" cried Phil, gaily,—I could hear the note of relief in his voice; "I do believe you've been shamming to give us a scare. Open your eyes this minute."

And then I found that I could raise my lids and look at the dear faces gathered about me.

"Sure you feel all right, Master Felix?" nurse asked, eyeing me closely.

"Sure," I answered slowly; "only tired."

"Well, if it's only tired you are, the best place is bed, an' we'll not send for the doctor," she said; and I made no objection, though usually I hate to go to bed in the day-time.

Not having inherited the good physique of the family, I've spent more days in bed and on the sofa than I'd be willing to count, and I'm not anxious for more. Still I would rather do that now than have the doctor sent for, so without demur I let Phil carry me down to my room, and undress and put me to bed.

What wouldn't I give to be as strong as he is! And he's gentle with it; sometimes he provokes me by the way he watches and takes care of me,—as if I were so fragile I'd go to pieces at a knock,—though in a way I like it, too, and he doesn't mean to rub it in.

He has an idea that I care less for him than he does for me, because I am so unfortunately constituted that I can't express what I feel; but—if he only knew it—life to me wouldn't be worth the living without him and Nannie,—dear old lion-heart! Sometimes I wonder if he will always be as good to me, and care as much; I mean when he gets older, and goes more among people, and they find out what a fine fellow he is, and what jolly company. He declares now that I'm the good company; but I know that my good spirits are more dependent on his than his on mine. In our studies I'm the quicker,—he doesn't love books as I do,—but he is so kindly and brave and bright and merry, that I'd defy anybody not to like him.

But—though he thinks he is awfully sharp—Phil is one of the kind that will be imposed upon; he's so honest and straightforward himself that he thinks everybody else is also, and I'm constantly afraid that some fellow or other that he doesn't see through'll get hold of him and get him into mischief. This was one of the reasons why I was so awfully disappointed at not going to college; Phil and I've been together all our lives, and I hated mortally to have him go off alone and meet people, and make friends there that I would never know. He really needs me—my cooler judgment, I mean—just as much as I ever need his protecting strength. I'm almost sure that she thought so, too, for whenever college was spoken of she would say, "You must go at the same time, Felix, and help him;" and once she added, "help him in everything," and I understood what she meant.

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 A1 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.