The sun of the next morning arose at the outrageously unfashionable hour that he affects in June, but Mrs. Burton was up before him. Her husband had attended a town meeting the night before, and the forefathers of the hamlet had been so voluble that Mr. Burton had not returned home until nearly midnight. He needed rest, and his wife determined that he should sleep as long as possible; but there were things dearer to her than even the comfort of her husband, and among these were the traditions she had received concerning things mystical. She had an intuition that her nephews would examine the grave of the bird they had interred two days before, and she dreaded to listen to the literal conversation and comments that would surely follow. Had the bird been a human being, the remarks of its tender-hearted little friends would have seemed anything but materialistic to Mrs. Burton; but it was only a bird, and the lady realized that to answer questions as to the soullessness of an innocent being and the comparative value of characterless men and women was going to be no easy task.

She therefore perfected a plan which should be fair to all concerned; she would arouse her husband only when she heard her nephews moving; then she would engage the young men in conversation while her husband desecrated the grave. She would have saved considerable trouble by locking the young men in their chamber and allowing her husband to slumber content, but having failed to remove the key on the advent of the boys they had found use for it themselves, and no questioning had been able to discover its whereabouts. Meanwhile the boys were quiet, and Mrs. Burton devoted the peaceful moments to laying out the day in such a manner as to have the least possible trouble from her nephews.

A violent kicking at the front door and some vigorous rings of the bell aroused the lady from her meditation and her husband from his dreams, while the dog Terry, who usually slept on the inner mat at the front door, began to howl piteously.

“Goodness!” growled Mr. Burton, rubbing his eyes, as his wife pulled the bell-cord leading to the servants’s room. “To whom do we owe money?”

“Oh, I’m afraid Helen is worse, or the baby is poorly!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, opening the chamber-window, and shouting, “Who is there?”

“Me,” answered a voice easily recognizable as that of Budge.

“Me, too!” screamed a thinner but equally familiar voice.

“We’ve got somethin’ awful lovely to tell you, Aunt Alice,” shouted Budge. “Let us in, quick!”

“Lovelier dan cake or pie or candy!” screamed Toddie.

One of the servants hurried down the stairs, the door opened, light footsteps hurried up the steps, and the dog Terry, pausing for no morning caress from his master, hurried under the bed for refuge, from which locality he expressed his apprehension in a dismal falsetto. Then, with a tramp which only children can execute, and which horses cannot approach in noisiness, came Budge and Toddie. Arrived at their aunt’s chamber-door, each boy tried to push the other away, that he might himself tell the story of which both were full. At last, from the outer side of the door:

“Dear little bydie’s gone to hebben.”

“Yes,” said Budge, “the angels took him away.”

“An’ de little ants all went to hebben wif him,” said Toddie.

“Only the angels didn’t take the gravestone, too,” said Budge. “Say, Aunt Alice, what’s the use of gravestones after folks is gone to heaven?”

“I know,” said Toddie. “I fought everybody knowed dat; it’s so’s folks know where to plant lovely flowers for deir angel what was in the grave to look down at.”

“Now,” said Budge, with the air of a champion of a newly discovered doctrine, “I’m just goin’ to ask papa who the folks are that don’t believe deaders go to heaven. I’ll jist tell ’em what geese they are.”

“Angels is dzust like birdies, isn’t they, Aunt Alice?” Toddie asked. “’Cause dey’ got winghs an’ clawshes, too.”

“How do you know they have claws?” asked Mr. Burton.

“’Cause I saw deir scratch-holes in the dyte at the grave,” said Toddie. “Dey was dzust little bits of scratchy cracks like little bydies make. I guesh dey was little baby-angels.”

Mr. Burton winked at his wife, who was looking greatly mystified, and he uttered the single monosyllable:

“Cats.”

“How did you get out of the house, children?” Mr. Burton asked.

“Jumped out of one of the kitchen windows,” said Budge. “But it was so high from the ground that we couldn’t get in again that way. And I think it’s breakfast-time; we’ve been up ’bout two hours.”

“Now’s the time for orthodox teaching, my dear,” suggested Mr. Burton. “Physiologists say that the mind is more active when the stomach’s empty.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Burton, starting for the kitchen, “but the minds of those boys are too active, even on full stomachs.”

Breakfast was on the table in due time, and the boys showed appreciation of it. After they were partly satisfied, however, Budge asked:

“Aunt Alice, how much longer do you suppose we can live without seeing that dear little sister?”

“Dear little girl sister,” said Toddie, by way of correction.

“Oh, quite a while,” Mrs. Burton replied. “I know you love it and your mamma too much to make either of them any trouble, and both of them are quite feeble yet. You love them better than you love yourself, don’t you?”

“Certainly,” said Budge. “That’s why I want to see ’em so awful much.”

“I fink it’s awful mean for little sishterzh not to have deir budders to play wif,” said Toddie.

“Well, I will think about it, and if you will both be very good, we will go there to-day.”

“Oh!” said Budge. “We’ll be our very goodest. I’ll tell you what, Tod; we’ll have a Sunday-school right after breakbux; that’ll be good.”

“I know something gooder dan that,” said Toddie. “We’ll play Daniel in de lions’s den, and you be de king an’ take me out. Dat’ a good deal gooder dan dzust playin’ Sunday-school; ’caush takin’ folks away from awful bitey lions is a gooder fing dan dzust singin’ an’ prayin’, like they do in Sunday-school.”

“Another frightful fit of heterodoxy to be overcome, my dear,” observed Mr. Burton. “That dreadful child is committed to the doctrine of the superior efficacy of works over faith.”

“I shall tell him the story of Daniel correctly,” said Mrs. Burton, “and error will be sure to fly from the appearance of truth.”

Mr. Burton took his departure for the day, and while his wife busied herself in household management, the children discussed the etiquette of the promised visit.

“Tell you what, Tod,” said Budge, “we ought to take her presents, anyhow. That was one of the lovaly things about Jesus being a little baby once. You know those shepherds came an’ brought him lots of presents.”

“What letsh take her?” asked Toddie.

“Well,” said Budge, “the shepherds carried money and things that smelled sweet, so I guess that’s what we ought to do.”

“Aw wight,” said Toddie. “’Cept, houzh we goin’ to get ’em?”

“We can go into the house very softly when we get home, you know,” said Budge, “an’ shake some pennies out of our savings-bank; them’ll do for the money. Then for things that smell sweet we can get flowers out of the garden.”

“Dat’ll be dzust a-givin’ her fings that’s at home already. I fink ’twould be nicer to carry her somefin’ from here, just as if we was comin’ from where we took care of de sheep.”

“Tell you what,” said Budge. “Let’ tease Aunt Alice for pennies. We ought to have thought about it before Uncle Harry went away.”

“Oh, yes!” said Toddie. “An’ dere’s a bottle of smelly stuff in Aunt Alice’s room; we’ll get some of dat. Shall we ask her for it, or dzust make b’lieve it’s ours?”

“Let’s be honest ’bout it,” said Budge. “It’s wicked to hook things.”

“’Twouldn’t be hookin’ if we took it for dat lovaly little sister baby, would it?” asked Toddie. “’Sides, I want to s’prise Aunt Alice an’ everybody wif de lots of presentsh I makesh to de dear little fing.”

“Oh! I’ll tell you what,” said Budge, forgetting the presents entirely in his rapture over a new idea. “You know how bright the point of the new lightning-rod on our house is? Well, we’ll make b’lieve that’s the star in the East, an’ it’s showin’ us where to come to find the baby.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Toddie. “An’ maybe Aunt Alice’ll carry us on her back, and then we’ll make b’lieve we’re ridin’ camels, like the shepherds in the picture we had Christmas, an’ tore up to make menageries of.”

The appearance of a large grasshopper directly in front of the boys ended the conversation temporarily, for both started in chase of it.

Half an hour later both boys straggled into the house, panting and dusty, and flung themselves upon the floor, when their aunt, with that weakness peculiar to the woman who is not also a mother, asked them where they had been, why they were out of breath, how they came by so much dust on their clothes, and why they were so cross. Budge replied, with a heavy sigh:

“Big folks don’t know much about little folks’s troubles.”

“Bad old hoppergrass, just kept a-goin’ wherever he wanted to, an’ never comed under my hat,” complained Toddie.

“Perhaps he knew it would not be best for you to have him, Toddie,” said Mrs. Burton. “What would you have done with him if you had succeeded in catching him?”

“Tookted his hind hoppers off,” said Toddie, promptly.

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “What would you have done that for?”

“So’s he’d fly,” said Toddie. “The idea of anybody wif wings goin’ awound on their hoppersh! How’d you like it if I had wings, an’ only trotted and jumped instead of flied?”

“My dear little boy,” said Mrs. Burton, taking her nephew on her lap, “you must know that it’s very wrong to hurt animals in that way. They are just as the Lord made them, and just as he wants them to be.”

“All animals?” asked Toddie.

“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Burton.

“Then what for doesh you catch pitty little mices in traps an’ kill ’em?”

Mrs. Burton hastened to give the conversation a new direction.

“Because they’re very troublesome,” she said. “And even troublesome people have to be punished when they meddle with other people’s things.”

“We know that, I guess,” interposed Budge, with a sigh.

“But,” said Mrs. Burton, hurrying forward to her point, “the animals have nerves and flesh and blood and bones, just like little boys do, and are just the way the Lord made them.”

“I’ll look for the hoppergrass’s blood next time I pull one’s legsh off,” said Toddie.

“Don’t,” said Mrs. Burton. “You must believe what aunty tells you, and you mustn’t trouble the poor things at all. Why, Toddie, there are real smart men, real good men that everybody respects, that have spent their whole lives in study of insects, like grasshoppers, and flies, and bees——”

“An’ never got stung?” asked Toddie. “How did dey do it?”

“They don’t care if they are stung,” said Mrs. Burton. “They are deeply interested in learning how animals are made. They study all kinds of animals, and try to find out why they are different from people; and they find out that some wee things, like grasshoppers, are more wonderful than any person that ever lived!”

“I should think so,” said Budge. “If I could hop like a grasshopper, I could jump faster than any boy in the kindergarten, an’ if I could sting like a hornet, I could wallop any boy in town.”

“Does they adzamine big animals, too?” asked Toddie.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Burton. “One of them has been away out West among the dreadful Indians, just to find out what horses were like a good many years ago.”

“If I find out all ’bout horsesh,” said Toddie, “will everybody like me?”

“Very likely,” said Mrs. Burton.

“Then I’m goin’ to,” said Toddie, sliding out of his aunt’s lap.

“Never mind about it now, dear,” said Mrs. Burton. “We are going to see mamma and baby now. Go and dress yourselves neatly, boys.”

Both children started, and Mrs. Burton, who was already prepared for her trip, opened a novel, first giving herself credit for having turned at least one perverted faculty of Toddie’s into its heaven-ordained channel.

“Another triumph to report to my husband,” said she, with a fine air of exultation, as she opened her novel. “And yet,” she continued, absent-mindedly, laying the book down again, “I believe I have found no occasion on which to report yesterday’s victories!”

The boys were slow to appear; but when they came down-stairs they presented so creditable an appearance as to call for a special compliment from their aunt. On their way to their mamma’s house they seemed preoccupied, and they sought frequent occasions to whisper to each other.

Arrived at home, their impatience knew no restraint; and when the nurse appeared with a wee bundle, topped with a little face, and lying on a big pillow, both boys pounced upon it at once, Budge trying to crowd several pennies into the baby’s rose-leaves of hands, while Toddie held to its nose a bottle labeled “Liquid Bluing.” At the same time the baby sneezed alarmingly and a strong odor of camphor pervaded the room.

“Where can that camphor be?” asked the nurse. “There is nothing that Mrs. Lawrence hates so intensely!”

The baby stopped sneezing and began a pitiful wail, while Toddie hastened to pick up the bluing-bottle; then the nurse saw that upon the baby’s hitherto immaculate wraps there was a large stain of a light-blue tint and emitting a strong odor of camphor. Meanwhile, Toddie had dragged upon his aunt’s sack, held his precious bottle up to his aunt’s nose, and exclaimed:

“Izhn’t dat too baddy! Baby gropped it, and spilled mosht every bit of it on her c’ozhes an’ on de floor!”

“Where did you get that camphor, Toddie?” asked Mrs. Burton, “and why did you bring it here?”

“Tizhn’t campiffer,” said Toddie. “It’ pyfume; I got it out of a big bottle on your bureau, where you makes your hankafusses smell sweet at. Budgie an’ me done dzust what dem sheepmen did when dey came to Beflehem to see de dear little Jesus-baby: we brought our baby money an’ fings dat smelled sweet.”

Mrs. Burton kissed Toddie; then the nurse fell on the floor and displayed the baby’s face, and then the face was shadowed from the light, and baby opened two little eyes and regarded her brothers with a stare of queenly gravity and gentleness, and the adoration expressed by the faces of the two boys was such as no old master ever put into the faces in an “Adoration of the Magi,” and above them bent a face more mature but none the less suffused with tender awe. The silence seemed too holy and delightful to be broken, but Toddie soon looked up inquiringly into his aunt’s face and asked:

“Aunt Alice, why don’t dere be a lovely sun around her head like dere is in pictures of dear little Jesus-babies?”

The quartet became human again, and the nurse offered each of the party a five-minute interview with the mother. Mrs. Burton emerged from the sick-chamber with a face which her nephews could not help scrutinizing curiously; Budge came out with the remark that he would never worry his sweet mamma again while he lived, but Toddie exclaimed:

“If I had a little new baby I wouldn’t stay in bed in dark roomsh all day long. I dzust get up an’ dansh awound.”

“Aunt Alice,” asked Budge, on the way back to his uncle’s residence, “now there’ somebody else at our house to have a birthday, isn’t there? When will baby sister’ birthday come—how many days?”

“About three hundred and sixty,” said Mrs. Burton.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Budge. “And how long ’fore Christmas’ll come again?”

“Nearly two hundred days.”

“Well, I think I will die if somebody don’t have a birthday pretty soon, so I can give ’em presents.”

“Why, you dear, generous little fellow,” said Mrs. Burton, stooping to kiss him, “my own birthday will come to-morrow.”

“Oh—h—h—h!” exclaimed Budge. “Say Toddie——” The remainder of the conversation was conducted in whispers and with countenances of extreme importance. The boys even took a different road for home, Budge explaining to his aunt that they had a big secret to talk about.

Mrs. Burton stopped en route to ask a neighborly question or two, and arrived at home somewhat later than her nephews. She saw a horse and wagon at the door, and rightly imagined that they belonged to the grocer. But what a certain white mass on the ground under the horse could consist of Mrs. Burton was at a loss to conjecture, and she quickened her pace only to find the white substance aforesaid resolve itself into the neatly clothed body of her nephew, Toddie, who was lying on his back in the dirt, and contemplating the noble animal’s chest with serene curiosity.

There are moments in life when dignity unbends in spite of itself, and grace of deportment becomes a thing to be loathed. Such a moment Mrs. Burton endured, as, dropping her parasol, she cautiously but firmly seized Toddie and snatched him from his dangerous position.

“Go into the house, this instant, you dirty boy!” said she, with an imperious stamp of her foot.

The fear in Toddie’s countenance gave place to expostulation, as he exclaimed:

“I was only dzust——”

“Go into the house this instant!” repeated Mrs. Burton.

“Ah—h—h—h!” said Toddie, beginning to cry, and rolling out his under lip as freely as if there were yards of it yet to come. “I was only studyin’ how the horsie was made togevver, so’s everybody’d espec’s an’ love me. Can’t go to where dem Injuns is, so I fought a gushaway’s [grocery] man’ horsie would be dzust as good. Ah—h—h!”

“There was no necessity for your lying on the ground, in your clean piquÉ dress, to do it,” said Mrs. Burton.

“Ah—h—h!” said Toddie again. “I studied all de west of him fyst, an’ I couldn’t hold him up so as to look under him. I tried to, an’ he looked at me dweadful cwosh, an’ so I didn’t.”

“Go into the house and have another dress put on,” said Mrs. Burton. “You know very well that nothing excuses little boys for dirtying their clothes when they can help it. When your Uncle Harry comes home we shall have to devise some way of punishing you so that you may remember to take better care of your clothing in the future.”

“Ah—h—h—h—! I hope de Lord won’t make any more horsesh, den, nor any little boys to be told to find out about ’em, an’ be punnissed dzust for gettin’ deir c’oshes a little dyty!” screamed Toddie, disappearing through the doorway and filling the house with angry screams.

Mrs. Burton lingered for a moment upon the piazza steps, and bravely endured a spasm of sense. There forced itself upon her mind the idea that it might be possible that the soiling of garments was not the sin of all sins, and that Toddie had really been affected by her information about the noble origin and nature of the animal physique. Certainly nothing but a sincere passion for investigation could have led Toddie between the feet of a horse, and a person so absorbed in scientific pursuits might possibly be excused for being regardless of personal appearance. But clean clothing ranked next to clean hearts in the Mayton family, and such acquirements as Mrs. Burton possessed she determined to lovingly transmit to her nephews, so far as was in her power. Toddie seemed in earnest in his indignation, and she respected mistaken impressions which were honestly made, so she determined to try to console the weeping child. Going into his room, she found her nephew lying on his back, kicking, screaming, and otherwise giving vent to his rage.

“Toddie,” said Mrs. Burton, “it is too bad that you should have so much trouble just after you have been to see your mamma and little sister.”

“I know it!” screamed Toddie, “an’ you can dzust go down-stairs again if dat’s all you came to tell me.”

“But, Toddie, dear,” said Mrs. Burton, kneeling and smoothing the hot forehead of her nephew, “aunty wants to see you feeling comfortable again.”

“Den put me back under the horsie again, so folksh’ll ’espec’s me,” sobbed Toddie.

“You’ve learned enough about the horse for to-day,” said Mrs. Burton. “I’ll ask your papa to teach you more when you go back home. Poor little boy, how hot your cheeks are! Aunt Alice wishes she could see you looking happy again.”

Toddie stopped crying for a moment, looked at his aunt intently, sat up, put on an air of importance, and said:

“Did de Lord send you up-stairsh to tell me you was sorry for what you done to me?” asked Toddie. “Den I forgives you, only don’t do dat baddy way any more. If you want to put a clean dwess on me, you can.”

“Aunt Alice,” said Budge, who had sauntered into the room, “you told Uncle Harry at the breakbux table that you was goin’ to tell us about Daniel to-day. Don’t you think it’s about time to do it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Toddie, hurrying his head into his clean dress, “an’ how de lions et up de bad men dat made de king frow Daniel in de deep dark hole. Gwon.”

“There was a very good young man whose name was Daniel,” said Mrs. Burton, “and although the king made a law that nobody should pray except to the gods that his people worshiped, Daniel prayed every day to the same Lord that we love.”

“He was up in heaven then, like he is now, wasn’t he?” said Budge.

“Yes.”

“Then where was the other people’s god?”

“Oh, on shelves and in closets, and all sorts of places,” said Mrs. Burton. “They were only bits of wood and stone; idols, in fact.”

“And wasn’t they good?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s very nice, for papa sometimes says that I am mamma’ idol. Am I sticky or stony?”

“Certainly not, dear. He means that your mother cares a great deal for you; that is all. And Daniel prayed just as he chose and when he chose, and the people that didn’t like him hurried up the king and said, ‘Just see, that young man for whom you care so much is praying to the Lord that the Jews believe in.’s The king was sorry to hear this, but Daniel wouldn’t tell a lie; he admitted that he prayed just as he wanted to, so the king had to order some men to throw Daniel into the den of lions. He felt very badly about it, for Daniel had been always very good and honest, and very good people are hard to find anywhere.”

“Musht tell mamma dat, nexsht time she saysh I must be very good,” said Toddie. “Gwon.”

“They threw poor Daniel in among the lions, and he must have felt dreadful on the way to the den, for he knew that lions are very savage and hungry. Why, one single lion will often eat up a whole man, yet there were a great many lions in the den Daniel was taken to.”

“He wouldn’t make much of a supper for all of them, poor fellow, would he?” Budge asked.

“No,” said Mrs. Burton, “so he did what sensible people always do when they find themselves in trouble. He prayed. As for the king, I imagine he didn’t sleep much that night. People who take the advice of others and against their own better judgment, generally have to feel uncomfortable about it. At any rate, the king was awake very early next morning, and hurried off to the den alone, and looked in, and shouted, ‘Daniel! the Lord that you believe in, was he strong enough to keep the lions from eating you?’ And then Daniel answered the king—think of how happy it must have made the king to hear his voice, and know he was not dead! The unkindness of the king had not made Daniel forget to be respectful, so he said, ‘Oh, king, I hope you may live for ever.’s Then he told the king that he had not been hurt at all, and the king was very glad, and he had Daniel taken out, and then the bad men who had been the cause of Daniel being given to the lions were all thrown into the den themselves, and the lions ate every one of them.”

“I know why they let Daniel alone an’ ate up all the other fellows,” said Budge, with an air of comprehension.

“I felt sure you would, dear little boy,” said Mrs. Burton; “but you may tell me what you think about it.”

“Why, you see,” said Budge, “Daniel was only one man, and he would be only a speck apiece for all those lions—just like one single bite of cake to a little boy. When there were plenty of men, so that each lion could have one for himself, they made up their minds it was dinner-time, an’ so they went to work.”

Somehow this reply caused Mrs. Burton to forget to enforce the great moral application of the story of Daniel, and she found it convenient to make a sudden tour of inspection in the kitchen. She was growing desperately conscious that, instead of instructing and controlling the children, she had thus far done little but supply material for their active minds and bodies to employ in manners extremely distasteful to her. More than once she found her mind wavering between two extremes of the theories of government—it seemed to her that she must either be very severe, or must allow the children to naturally develop their own faculties, within reasonable bounds. At the first she rebelled, partly because she was not cruel by nature, as severe rulers of children often are, and partly because the children were not her own. The other extreme was equally distasteful, however. Were not children always made to mind in well-regulated families? To be sure, they seldom in such cases fulfilled, in adult years, the promise of their youth, but that, of course, was their own fault—whose else could it be? Should adults, should she, whose will had never been brooked by parent or husband, set aside her own inclinations for the sake of a couple of unformed, unreasoning minds?

Like most other people in doubt, Mrs. Burton did nothing for a few hours and succeeded thereby in entirely losing sight of her nephews until nearly sunset, when, drawn by that instinct which is strongest in the most immature natures, the boys returned for something to eat. Though quiet, there could be no doubt about their contentment; their clothes were very dirty, and so were their faces, but out of the latter shone that indefinable something that is the easily read indication of the consciousness of rectitude and satisfaction with the results of right-doing. They were not communicative, even under much questioning, and Mr. Burton finally said, as one in a soliloquy:

“I wonder what it was?”

“What are you talking about, Harry?” asked Mrs. Burton.

“I am merely wondering what original and expensive experiment they’ve been up to now,” replied the head of the household.

“None whatever,” said Mrs. Burton, with an energy almost startling. “I often wonder how men can be so blind. Look at their dear, pure little faces, dirty though they are; there’s no more consciousness of wrong there than there could be in an angel’s face.”

“Just so, my dear,” said Mr. Burton. “If they were oftener conscious of misdeeds they would be worse boys, but a great deal less troublesome. Come see uncle, boys—don’t you want a trot on my knees?”

Both children scrambled into their uncle’ arms, and Budge began to whisper very earnestly.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Mr. Burton answered.

“Goody, goody, goody!” exclaimed Budge, clapping his hands. “I’m going to give you a birthday present to-morrow, Aunt Alice.”

“So am I,” said Toddie.

“It’s something to eat,” said Budge.

“Mine, too,” said Toddie.

“Be careful, Budge,” said Mr. Burton. “You’ll let the secret out if you’re not careful.”

“Oh, no, I won’t. I only said ’twas something to eat. But say, Aunt Alice, how do bananas grow?” [said] Toddie, with brightening eyes and a confident shake of his curly head.

“And I know,” said Mr. Burton, lifting Toddie suddenly from his knee, “that either a certain little boy is breaking to pieces and spilling badly, or something else is. What’ this?” he continued, noticing a very wet spot on Toddie’s apron, just under which his pocket was. “And” (here he opened Toddie’ pocket and looked into it) “what is that vile muss in your pocket?”

Toddie’s eyes opened in wonder, and then his countenance fell.

“’Twash only a little bunch,” said he, “an’ I was goin’ to eat it on de way home, but I forgotted it!”

“They’re white grapes, my dear,” said Mr. Burton. “The boys have been robbing somebody’s hothouse; Tom has no grapes in his. Where did you get these, boys?”

“Sh—h—h!” whispered Toddie, impressively. “Nobody musht never tell secretsh.”

“Where did you get those grapes?” demanded Mrs. Burton, hastening to the examination of the dripping dress.

Toddie burst into tears.

“I should think you would cry!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton; “after stealing people’ fruit.”

“Isn’t cryin’ ’bout dat,” sobbed Toddie. “I’ze cryin’ ’caush youze a-spoilin’ my s’prise for your bifeday ev’ry minute you’ a-talkin’!”

“Alice, Alice!” said Mr. Burton, softly. “Remember that the poor child is not old enough to have learned what stealing means.”

“Then he shall learn now!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, all of her righteous sense upon the alert. “What do you suppose would become of you if you were to die to-night?”

“Won’t die!” sobbed Toddie. “If angel comes to kill me like he did the ’Gyptians, I’ll hide.”

“No one could hide from the angel of the Lord,” said Mrs. Burton, determined that fear should do what reason could not.

“Why, he doesn’t carry no lanternzh wif him in de night-time, does he?” said Toddie.

Mr. Burton laughed but his wife silenced him with a glance and answered:

“He can see well enough to find bad little boys when he wants them.”

“Ain’t bad,” screamed Toddie, “an’ I won’t give you de uvver grapes now, dat we brought home in a flower-pot.”

“Come to uncle, old boy,” said Mr. Burton, taking the doleful child upon his knee again, and caressing him tenderly. “Tell uncle all about it, and he’ll see if you can’t be set all right.”

“An’ not let de killey angel come catch me?” asked Toddie.

“I’ll tell you, Uncle Harry,” said Budge. “We was goin’ to give Aunt Alice fruit for her birthday—me bananas an’ Tod white grapes. We didn’t know where any bananas growed, but Mr. Bushman, way off along the mountain, has got lots of lovely grapes in his greenhouse, ’cause we went there once with papa, and they talked ’bout grapes an’ things ’most all afternoon, an’ he told him to come help himself whenever he wanted any. So we made up a great secret, an’ we went up there this afternoon to ask him to give us some for our aunt, ’cause ’twas goin’ to be her birthday. But he wasn’t home, and the greenhouse man wasn’t there either; but the door was open, an’ we went in an’ saw the grapes, an’ we made up our minds that he wouldn’t care if we took some, ’cause he told papa to. So we got three or four nice bunches, and put ’em in a flower-pot with leaves in it, and each of us got a little bunch to eat ourselves; but we found lots of wild strawberries on the way back, so Tod forgot his grapes, I guess, but mine’s safe in my stomach. An’ ’twas awful hot an’ dusty, an’ I never got so tired in my life. But we wanted to make Aunt Alice happy, so we didn’t care.”

“An’ then she said we was fiefs!” sobbed Toddie. “Bad old fing!”

“Never mind, Toddie,” said Mrs. Burton, all her moral purpose taking flight as she kissed the tear-stained, dirty little cheeks, and carried her nephew to the dinner-table.

Toddie’s meal was quickly dispatched. He seemed preoccupied, and hurried away from the table, though he was quite ready to go to bed when summoned by his aunt. Half an hour later Mr. Burton, sauntering out to the piazza to smoke, saw a large, rude cross, in red ink, on either side of the door-frame. Even men have weaknesses, and a fastidiousness about the appearance of his house was one of Mr. Burton’. He dashed up the stairs, three steps at a time, and burst into his nephew’s room, exclaiming:

“Who daubed the door with ink?”

“Me,” said Toddie, boldly. “I was afraid you’d forget to tell dat killey angel I wasn’t any fief, so I putted crosses on de door, like de Izzyrelites did, so he would go a-past. He wouldn’t know de ink wasn’t blood, I guess, in de night-time.”

Toddie suddenly found himself alone again.