It was with a sneaking sense of relief that Mrs. Burton awoke on the following morning, and realized that the day was Sunday.

“Even school-teachers have two days of rest in every seven,” she said to herself, “and no one doubts that they deserve them. How much more deserving of rest and relief must be the volunteer teacher who, not for a few hours only, but from dawn to twilight, has charge of two children whose capacity for both learning and mischief surely equals any school full of boys.”

The feeling that she was attempting for a few days only that which mothers everywhere were doing without hope of rest excepting in heaven, made her feel humble and worthless, but it did not banish her wish to turn the children over to the care of their uncle for the day. Thoughts of a Sunday excursion, from participation in which she should in some way excuse herself; of volunteering to relieve her sister-in-law’s nurse during the day, and thus leaving her husband, in charge of the house and the children; of making that visit to her mother which is always in order with the young wife—all these, and other devices not so practicable, came before her mind’s eye for comparison, but they all and together took sudden wing when her husband awoke and complained of a raging toothache. Truly pitiful and sympathetic as Mrs. Burton was, she exhibited remarkable resignation in the face of the thought that her husband would probably need to remain in his room all day, and that it would be absolutely necessary to keep the children out of his sight and hearing. Then he could find nothing to criticise; she might fail frequently, as she probably would, but he would know only of her successes.

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

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

“Yes, I—think I’ve heard—something of the kind—before,” mumbled Mr. Burton, with difficulty, between the fingers that covered his aching tooth.

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

“Dat izhn’t de way to play bear,” complained Toddie. “You ought to keep on a-howlin’, an’ let me keep on a-bitin’, an’ den you give me pennies to stop. Dat’s de way papa does.”

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

“I suppose I could,” replied the sufferer, “if I hadn’t such a toothache.”

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

“Den you’s a baddy woman to stay in here an’ keep a-talkin’ all de whole time,” said Toddie, “when it makes poor old Uncle Harry hurt so. G’way.”

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

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

“Is dat de way not to be hungry?” asked Toddie, with the wide-open eyes, which always accompany the receptive mind.

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

“Gwacious!” said Toddie. “What lots of fings little boys has got to lyne, hazn’t dey? Come on, Budgie; let’s go put our tummuks to bed, an’keep ’em from gettin’ ajjerytated.”

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

“There’s no one down-stairs to get you any,” said Mrs. Burton.

“Oh,” said Budge, “we can find ’em. We know where everything is in the pantries and storeroom.”

“I wish I were so clever,” sighed Mrs. Burton. “Go along; get what you like, but don’t come back to this room again. And don’t let me find anything in disorder down-stairs, or I shall never trust you in my kitchen again.”

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

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

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

“I’ll take care of them while you’re at church, my dear,” said Mr. Burton. “They’re always saintly with sick people.”

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

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

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

“Why,” said Budge, “you told us to get what we wanted, an’ we supposed you told the troof.”

“An’ I ain’t azh hungry azh I wazh,” said Toddie, “but my tummuk feels as if it growed big and got little again, every minute or two, an’ it hurts. I wishes we could put tummuks away when we get done usin’ ’em, like we do hats an’ over-shoes.”

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

“We don’t want none of this kind of breakfast,” said Budge.

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

“Don’t fret about that, Tod,” said Budge. “Don’t you know papa says that the Bible says somethin’ that means ‘don’t worry till you have to’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re grown people, all over again,” remarked Mr. Burton, with a laugh.

“What do you mean?” demanded Mrs. Burton.

“Only this; when their own devices fail, they’re in a hurry for the consolations of religion. May I visit the Sunday-school?”

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

“Ole Uncle Ned,” said Toddie.

“Oh, that’s not a Sunday song.”

“I fink tizh,” said Toddie, “’cause it sayzh, free or four timezh, ‘He’s gone where de good niggers go,’s an’ dat’s hebben, you know. So it’s a Sunday song.”

“I think ‘Glory, glory, hallelujah!’s is nicer,” said Budge, “an’ I know it’s a Sunday song, ’cause I’ve heard it in church.”

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

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

“Round the corner from our housh,” said Toddie; “an’ you can shing you ole shongs yourseff, if you don’t like mine.”

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

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

“Now bring on your lesson.”

Mrs. Burton opened her Bible with a sense of helplessness. With the instinct of a person given to thoroughness, she opened at the beginning of the book, but she speedily closed it again. Turning the leaves rapidly; passing, for conscience’s sake, the record of many a battle, the details of which would have delighted the boys, and hurrying past the prophecies as records not for the minds of children, she at last reached the New Testament and the ever-new story of the only boy who ever was all that his parents and relatives could wish him.

“The lesson will be about Jesus,” said Mrs. Burton.

“Little-boy Jesus or big-man Jesus?” asked Toddie.

“A—a—both,” replied the teacher, in confusion.

“Aw wight,” said Toddie. “G’won.”

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

“Does He know how it feels to be a little boy,” asked Toddie, “an’ be sent to bed when He don’t want to go?”

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

“But wasn’t dere lotsh of little boyzh den?” asked Toddie, “an’ didn’t they need to be comforted as well as big folks?”

“I suppose so. But He knew that if He comforted grown people, they would make the children happy.”

“I wiss He’d comfort you an’ Uncle Harry ev’ry mornin’, den,” said Toddie. “G’won.”

“So He sent His own Son—His only Son—down to the world to be a dear little baby. And while smart people everywhere were wondering what would or could happen to quiet the restless heart of people——”

“Izh restless hearts like restless tummuks?” interrupted Toddie. “Kind o’ pumpy an’ wabbley?”

“I suppose so.”

“Poor folks!” said Toddie, clasping his hands over his waistband. “I’zhe sorry for ’em.”

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

“Was it one of the twinkle-twinkle kind, or one of the stand-still kind?” asked Toddie.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Burton, after a moment’s reflection. “Why do you ask?”

“’Cauzh,” said Toddie, “I know what ’twazh dere for, an’ it ought to have twinkled, ’cauzh twinkley stars bob open an’ shut dat way ’cauzh dey’re laughin’ an’ can’t keep still, an’ I know I’d have laughed if I’d been a star an’ was goin’ to make a lot of folks awful happy. G’won.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Burton, looking alternately and frequently at the two accounts of the Advent, “they suddenly saw an angel, and the shepherds were afraid.”

“Should fink dey would be!” said Toddie. “Everybody gets afraid when dey see good people around. I ’pec dey thought de angel would say ‘Don’t!’ in about a minute.”

“But the angel told them not to be afraid,” said Mrs. Burton, “for he had come to bring good news. There was to be a baby born at Bethlehem, and He would make everybody happy.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if that angel would come an’ do it all over again?” Budge asked. “Only he ought to pick out little boys instead of sheep fellows. I wouldn’t be afraid of an angel.”

“Neiver would I,” said Toddie. “I’d dzust go round behind him an’ see how his wings was fastened on.”

“Then a great many other angels came,” said Mrs. Burton, “and they all sang together. The shepherds didn’t know what to make of it, but after the singing was over they all started for Bethlehem to see that wonderful baby.”

“Just like the other day we went to see the sister-baby!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Burton; “but instead of finding him in a pleasant home and a nice room, with careful friends and nurses around him, he was in a manger out in a stable.”

“That was ’cause he was so smart that he could do just what he wanted to, an’ be just where he liked,” said Budge, “an’ he was a little boy, an’ little boys always like stables better than houses. I wish I could live in a stable always an’ for ever!”

“So do I,” said Toddie, “an’ sleep in mangers, ’cauzh den de horses would kick anybody dat made me put on clean clozhezh when I didn’t want to. Dey gaveded him presentsh, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Burton; “gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

“Why didn’t they give him rattles and squealey-balls, like folks did budder Phillie when he was a baby,” asked Toddie.

“Because, Toddie,” said Mrs. Burton, glad of an opportunity to get the sentiment of the story into her own hands, from which it had departed very early in the course of the lesson—“because he was no common baby, like other children.”

“Did he play around, like uvver little boysh?” continued Toddie.

“I—I—suppose so,” said Mrs. Burton, fearing lest in trying to instill reverence into her nephews, she herself might prove irreverent.

“Did somebody say ‘Don’t’ at him every time he did anyfing?” continued Toddie.

“N—n—n—o! I imagine not,” said Mrs. Burton, “because he was always good.”

“That don’t make no diffwelence,” said Toddie. “De better a little boy triesh to be, de more folks says ‘Don’t’ to him. So I guesh nobody had any time to say anyfing elsh at all to Jesus.”

“What did he do next?” asked Budge, as deeply interested as if he had not heard the same story many times before.

“He grew strong in body and spirit,” said Mrs. Burton, “and everybody loved him; but before he had time to do all that, an angel came and frightened his papa in a dream, and told him that the king of that country would kill little Jesus if he could find him. So Joseph and Mary, the mamma of the baby, got up in the middle of the night and started off to Egypt.”

“What did they do when they got there?” Budge asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Burton. “I suppose the papa worked hard for money to buy good food and comfortable resting-places for his wife and the baby; and I suppose the mamma walked about the fields, and picked pretty flowers for her baby to play with; and I suppose the baby cooed when his mamma gave them to him, and laughed and danced and played, and then got tired, and came and hid his little face in his mamma’s lap, and was taken into her arms and held ever so tight, and fell asleep, and that his mother looked into his face as if she would look through it, while she tried to find out what her baby would be and do when he grew up, and whether he would be taken away from her, while it seemed as if she couldn’t live at all without having him very closely pressed to her breast and——”

Mrs. Burton’s voice grew a little shaky and soon failed her entirely. Budge came in front of her, scrutinized her intently but with great sympathy also, rested his elbows on her knees, dropped his face into his own hands, looked up into her face, and said:

“Why, Aunt Alice, she was just like my mamma, wasn’t she? An’ I think you are just like both of ’em!”

Mrs. Burton took Budge into her arms, covered his face with kisses, and totally destroyed another chance of explaining the difference between the earthly and the heavenly to her pupils, while Toddie eyed the couple with evident disfavor, and said:

“I fink ’twould be nicer if you’d see if dinner was bein’ got ready, instead of stoppin’ tellin’ stories an’ huggin’ Budgie. My tummuk’ all gotted little again.”

Mrs. Burton came back to the world of to-day from that of history, though not without a sigh, while the dog Terry, who had divined the peaceful nature of the occasion so far as to feel justified in reclining beneath his mistress’ chair, now contracted himself into the smallest possible space, slunk out of the doorway, and took a lively quickstep in the direction of the shrubbery. Toddie had seen him, however, and told Budge, and both boys were soon in pursuit, noticing which, Terry speedily betook himself to that distant retirement which the dog who has experience in small boys knows well how to discover and maintain.

As the morning wore on the boys grew restless, fought, drummed on the piano, snarled when that instrument was closed, meddled with everything that was within reach, and finally grew so troublesome that their aunt soon felt that to lose was cheaper than to save, so she left the house to the children, and sought the side of the lounge upon which her afflicted husband reclined. The divining sense of childhood soon found her out, however, and Budge remarked:

“Aunt Alice, if you’re going to church, seems to me it’s time you was getting ready.”

“I can’t go to church, Budge,” sighed Mrs. Burton. “If I do, you boys will only turn the whole house upside down, and drive your poor uncle nearly crazy.”

“No, we won’t,” said Budge. “You don’t know what nice nurses we can be to sick people. Papa says nobody can even imagine how well we can take care of anybody until they see us do it. If you don’t believe it, just leave us with Uncle Harry, an’ stay home from church an’ peek through the keyhole.”

“Go on, dear,” said Mr. Burton. “If you want to go to church, don’t be afraid to leave me. I think you should go, after your experience of this morning. I shouldn’t think your mind could be at peace until you had joined your voice with that of the great congregation, and acknowledged yourself to be a miserable sinner.”

Mrs. Burton winced, but nevertheless retired, and soon appeared dressed for church, kissed her husband and her nephews, gave many last instructions, and departed. Budge followed her with his eye until she had stepped from the piazza, and then remarked, with a sigh of relief:

“Now I guess we’ll have what papa calls a good, old-fashioned time, for we’ve got rid of her.”

“Budge!” exclaimed Mr. Burton, sternly, and springing to his feet, “do you know who you are talking about? Don’t you know that your Aunt Alice has saved you from many a scolding, done you many a favor, and been your best friend?”

“Oh, yes,” said Budge, with at least a dozen inflections on each word, “but ev’ry day friends an’ Sunday friends are kind o’ different; don’t you think so? She can’t make whistles, or catch bullfrogs, or carry both of us up the mountain on her shoulders, or sing ‘Roll, Jordan.’”

“And do you expect me to do all these things to-day?”

“N—n—no, unless you should get well, an’ feel just like it; but we’d like to be with somebody who could do ’em if he wanted to. We like ladies that’s all ladies, but then we like men that’s all men, too. Aunt Alice is a good deal like an angel, I think, and you—well, you ain’t. An’ we don’t want to be with angels all the time until we’re angels ourselves.”

Mr. Burton turned over suddenly and contemplated the back of the lounge, while Budge continued:

“We don’t want you to get to be an angel, so what I want to know is, how to make you well. Don’t you think if I borrowed papa’ horse and carriage an’ took you ridin’ you’d feel better? I know he’d lend ’em to me if I told him you were goin’ to drive.”

“And if you said you would go with me to take care of me?” suggested Mr. Burton.

“Y—e—es,” said Budge, as hesitatingly as if such an idea had never occurred to him. “An’ don’t you think that up to the top of Hawksnest Rock an’ out to Passaic Falls would be the nicest places for a sick man to go? When you got tired of ridin’ you could stop the carriage an’ cut us a cane, or make us whistles, or even send us in swimming in a brook somewhere if you got tired of us.”

“H’m!” grunted Mr. Burton.

“An’ you might take fings to eat wif you,” suggested Toddie, “an’ when you got real tired and felt bad you might stop an’ have a little picnic. I fink dat would be dzust de fing for a man wif de toofache. And we could help you, lotsh.”

“I’ll see how I feel after dinner,” said Mr. Burton. “But what are you going to do for me between now and then, to make me feel better?”

“We’ll tell you storiezh,” said Toddie. “Dem’s what sick folks alwayzh likesh.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Burton. “Begin right away.”

“Aw wight,” said Toddie. “Do you wantsh a sad story or a d’zolly one?”

“Anything. Men with the toothache can stand nearly anything. Don’t draw on your imagination too hard.”

“Don’t never draw on no madzinasuns,” said Toddie; “I only draws on slatesh.”

“Never mind. Give us the story.”

“Well,” said Toddie, seating himself in a little rocking-chair, and fixing his eyes on the ceiling, “guesh I’ll tell about AbrahammynIsaac. Onesh de Lord told a man named Abraham to go up the mountain an’ chop his little boy’s froat open an’ burn him up on a naltar. So Abraham started to go do it. An’ he made his little boy Isaac, dat he was going to chop and burn up, carry de kindlin’ wood he was goin’ to set him a-fire wif. An’ I want to know if you fink dat wazh very nysh of him?”

“Well, no.”

“Tell you what,” said Budge, “you don’t ever catch me carryin’ sticks up the mountain, even if my papa wants me to.”

“When they got up dere,” said Toddie, “Abraham made a naltar an’ put little Ikey on it, an’ took a knife an’ was goin’ to chop his froat open, when a andzel came out of hebben, an’ said: ‘Stop a-doin’ dat!’s So Abraham stopped, an’ Ikey skooted. An’ Abraham saw a sheep caught in de bushes, an’ he caught him an’ killed him. He wasn’ goin’ to climb way up a mountain to kill somebody an’ not have his knife bluggy a bit. An’ he burned de sheep up. An’ den he went home again.”

“I’ll bet you Isaac’s mamma never knew what his papa wanted to do with him,” said Budge, “or she’d never let her little boy go away in the mornin’. Do you want to bet?”

“N—no, not on Sunday,” said Mr. Burton. “Now, suppose you little boys go out of doors and play for a while, while uncle tries to get a nap.”

The boys accepted the suggestion and disappeared. Half an hour later, as Mrs. Burton was walking home from church under escort of old General Porcupine, and enduring with saintly fortitude the general’s compliments upon her management of the children, there came screams of fear and anguish from the general’s own grounds, which the couple were passing.

“Who can that be?” exclaimed the general, his short hairs bristling like the quills of his titular godfather. “We have no children.”

“I think I know the voices,” gasped Mrs. Burton, turning pale.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the general, with an accent which showed that he was wishing the reverse of blessings upon souls less needy than his own. “You don’t mean——”

“Oh, I do!” said Mrs. Burton, wringing her hands. “Please hurry!”

The general puffed and snorted up his gravel walk and toward the shrubbery, behind which was a fishpond from which direction the sound came. Mrs. Burton followed in time to see her nephew Budge help his brother out of the pond while the general tugged at a large crawfish which had fastened its claw upon Toddies finger. The fish was game, but, with a mighty pull from the general, and a fiendish shriek from Toddie, the fish’s claw and body parted company, and the general, still holding the latter tightly, staggered backward and himself fell into the pond.

“Ow—ow—ow!” howled Toddie, clasping the skirt of his aunt’s mauve silk in a ruinous embrace, while the general floundered and snorted like a whale in dying agonies and Budge laughed as merrily as if the whole scene had been provided especially for his entertainment. Mrs. Burton hurried her nephews away, forgetting, in her mortification, to thank the general for his service, and placing a hand over Toddie’s mouth.

“It hurts!” mumbled Toddie.

“What did you touch the fish at all for?” asked Mrs. Burton.

“It was a little baby-lobster,” sobbed Toddie, “an’ I loves little babies—all kinds of ’em—an’ I wanted to pet him. An’ den I wanted to grop him.”

“Why didn’t you do it?” demanded the lady.

“’Cauzh he wouldn’t grop,” said Toddie. “He isn’t all gropped yet.”

True enough, the claw of the fish still hung at Toddies finger, and Mrs. Burton spoiled a pair of four-button kids in detaching it, while Budge continued to laugh. At length, however, mirth gave place to brotherly love, and Budge tenderly remarked:

“Toddie dear, don’t you love Bother Budgie?”

“Yesh,” sobbed Toddie.

“Then you ought to be happy,” said Budge, “for you’ve made him awful happy. If the fish hadn’t caught you, the general couldn’t have pulled him off, an’ then he wouldn’t have tumbled into the pond, an’ oh, my—didn’t he splash bully!”

“Then you’s got to be bited wif a fiss yourself,” said Toddie, “an’ make him tumble in again, for me to laugh ’bout.”

“You’re two naughty boys,” said Mrs. Burton. “Is this the way you take care of your sick uncle?”

“We did take care of him!” exclaimed Toddie. “Told him a lovaly Bible story, an’ you didn’t, an’ he wouldn’t have had not no Sunday at all if I hadn’t done it. An’ we’ goin’ to take him widin’ dis afternoon.”

Mrs. Burton hurried home, but it seemed to her that she had never met so many inquiring acquaintances during so short a walk. Arrived at last, she ordered her nephews to their room, and flung herself in tears beside her husband, murmuring:

“Harry!”

And Mr. Burton, having viewed the ruined dress with the eye of experience, uttered the single word:

“Boys!”

“What am I to do with them?” asked the unhappy woman.

Mr. Burton was an affectionate husband. He adored womankind, and sincerely bemoaned its special grievances; but he did not resist the temptation to recall his wife’s announcement of five days before, so he whispered:

“Train them.”

“I——”

Mrs. Burton’s humiliation by her own lips was postponed by a heavy footfall, which, by turning her face, she discovered was that of her brother-in-law, Tom Lawrence, who remarked:

“Tender confidences, eh? There’s nothing like them, if you want to be happy. But Helen’s pretty well to-day, and dying to have her boys with her, and I’m even worse with a similar longing. You can’t spare them, I suppose?”

The peculiar way in which Tom Lawrence’ eyes danced as he awaited a reply would, at any other time, have aroused all the defiance in Alice Burton’s nature; but now, looking at the front of her beautiful dress, she only said:

“Why—I suppose—we might spare them for an hour or two.”

“You poor, dear Spartan,” said Tom, with genuine sympathy, “You shall be at peace until their bedtime.”

And Mrs. Burton found occasion to rearrange the bandage on her husband’s face so as to whisper in his ear:

“Thank heaven!”