“Only three more days,” soliloquized Mrs. Burton, when the departure of her husband for New York and the disappearance of the boys gave her a quiet moment to herself. “Three more days, and then peace—and a life-long sense of defeat! And by whom? By two mere infants—in years. I erred in not taking them singly. When they are together it’s impossible to take their minds from their own childish affairs long enough to impress them with larger sense and better ways. But I didn’t take them singly, and I have talked, and oh—stupidest of women!—I’ve blundered upon my husband for my principal listener. He does get along with them better than I do, and the exasperating thing about it is that he seems to do it without the slightest effort. How is it? They cling to him, obey him, sit by the roadside for an hour before train time just to catch the first glimpse of him, while I—am I growing uninteresting? Many women do after they marry, but I didn’t think that I”—here Mrs. Burton extracted a tiny mirror from a vase on the mantel—“that I could be made stupid by marrying a loving old merry heart like Harry!”

Mrs. Burton scrutinized her lineaments intently. A wistful earnestness stole into her face as she studied it, and it softened every line. Suddenly but softly a little arm stole about her neck, and a little voice exclaimed:

“Aunt Alice, why don’t you always look that way? There! Now you’re stoppin’ it. Big folks is just like little boys, ain’t they? Mamma says it’s never safe to tell us we’re good, ’cause we go an’ stop it right away.”

“When did you come in, Budge? How did you come so softly? Have you been listening? Don’t you know it is very impolite to listen to people when they’re not talking to you? Why, where are your shoes and stockings?”

“Why,” said Budge,” I took ’em off so’—so’ to get some cake for a little tea-party without makin’ a noise about it! You say our little boots make an awful racket. But say, why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?” asked Mrs. Burton, her whole train of thought whisking out of sight at lightning speed.

“Why don’t you always look like you did a minute ago? If you did, I wouldn’t ever play or make trouble a bit. I’d just sit still all the time, and do nothin’ but look at you.”

“How did I look, Budge?” asked Mrs. Burton, taking the child into her arms.

“Why, you looked as if—as if—well, I don’t ’zactly know. You looked like papa’ picture of Jesus’s mamma does, after you look at it a long time an’ nobody is there to bother you. I never saw anybody else look that way ’xcept my mamma, an’ when she does it I don’t ever say a word, else mebbe she’ll stop.”

“You can have the cake you came for,” said Mrs. Burton.

“I don’t want any cake,” said Budge, with an impatient movement. “I don’t want any tea-party. I want to stay with you, an’ I want you to talk to me, ’cause you’re beginnin’ to look that way again.” Here Budge nearly strangled his aunt in a tight embrace, and kissed her repeatedly.

“You darling little fellow,” asked Mrs. Burton, while returning his caresses, “do you know why I looked as I did? I was wondering why you and Toddie love your Uncle Harry so much better than you love me, and why you always mind him and disobey me.”

Budge was silent for a moment or two, then he sighed and answered:

“’Cause.”

“Because of what?” asked Mrs. Burton. “You would make me very happy if you were to explain it to me.”

“Well,” said Budge, “’cause you’re different.”

“But, Budge, I know a great many people who are not like each other, but I love them equally well.”

“They ain’t uncles and aunts, are they?”

“No, but what has that to do with it?”

“And they’re not folks you have to mind, are they?” continued Budge.

“N——no,” said Mrs. Burton, descrying a dim light afar off.

“Do they want you to do things their way?”

“Some of them do.”

“An’ do you do it?”

“Sometimes I do.”

“You don’t unless you want to, do you?”

“No!”

“Well, neither do I,” said Budge. “But when Uncle Harry wants me to do somethin’, why somehow or other I want to do it myself after a while. I don’t know why, but I do. An’ I don’t always, when you tell me to. I love you ever so much when you ain’t tellin’ me things, but when you are, then they ain’t ever what I want to do. That’s all I know ’bout it. ’Xcept, he don’t want me to do such lots of things as you do. He likes to see us enjoy ourselves; but sometimes I think you don’t. We can’t be happy only our way, an’ our way seems to be like Uncle Harry’, an’ yours ain’t.”

Mrs. Burton mused, and gradually her lips twitched back into their natural lines.

“There—you ’re stoppin’ lookin’ that way,” said Budge, sighing and straightening himself. “I guess I do want the cake an’ the tea-party.”

“Don’t go, Budgie, dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, clasping the boy tightly. “When any one teaches you anything that you want very much to know doesn’t it make you happy?”

“Oh, yes—lots,” said Budge.

“Well, then, if you try, perhaps you can teach Aunt Alice something that she wants very much to know.”

“What!” exclaimed Budge. “A little boy teach a grown folks lady? I guess I’ll stay.”

“I want to understand all about this difference between your Uncle Harry and me,” continued Mrs. Burton. “Do you think you minded him very well last summer?”

“That’s too long ago for me to remember,” said Budge “But I didn’t ever mind him unless I wanted to, or else had to, an’ when I had to an’ didn’t want to I didn’t love him a bit. I talked to papa about it when we got back home again, an’ he said ’twas ’cause Uncle Harry didn’t know us well enough an’ didn’t always have time to find out all about us. Then they had a talk about it—papa and Uncle Harry did, in the library one day. I know they did, ’cause I was playin’ blocks in a corner, an’ I just stopped a-playin’ an’ listened to ’em. An’ all at once papa said, ‘Little pitchers!’s an’ said I’d oblige him very much if I’d go to the store and buy him a box of matches. But I just listened a minute after I went out of the room, until I heard Uncle Harry say he’d been a donkey. I knew he was mistaken about that, so I went back an’ told him he hadn’t ever been any animals but what’s in a menagerie, an’ then they both laughed an’ went out walkin’, an’ I don’t know what they said after that. Only Uncle Harry’s been awful good to me ever since, though sometimes I bother him when I don’t mean to.”

Mrs. Burton released one arm from her nephew and rested her head thoughtfully upon her hand. Budge looked up and exclaimed:

“There! You’re looking that way again. Say, Aunt Alice, don’t Uncle Harry love you lots an’ lots when you look so?”

Mrs. Burton recalled evidence of such experiences, but before she could say so a small curly head came cautiously around the edge of the door, and then it was followed by the whole of Toddie, who exclaimed:

“I fink you’s a real mean bruvver, Budgie! De tea-party’s been all ready for you an’ de cake till I had to eat up all de strawberries to keep de nasty little ants from eatin’ ’em. I yet up de cabbage-leaf plate dey was in, too, to keep me from gettin’ hungrier.”

“There!” exclaimed Budge, springing from his aunt’s lap.” That’s just the way, whenever I’m lovin’ to anybody, somethin’ always goes and happens.”

“Is that all you care for your aunt, Budge?” asked Mrs. Burton. “Is a tea-party worth more than me?”

Budge reflected for a moment. “Well,” said he, “didn’t you cry when your tea-party was spoiled last week on your burfday? To be sure, your tea-party was bigger than ours, but then you’re a good deal bigger than we, too, an’ I haven’t cried a bit.”

Mrs. Burton saw the point and was mentally unable to avoid it. The view was not a pleasant one, and grew more humiliating the longer it was presented. It was, perhaps, to banish it that she rose from her chair, brought from a closet in the dining-room some of the coveted cake and gave a piece to each boy, saying:

“It isn’t that Aunt Alice cares so much for her cake, dears, that she doesn’t like you to have it between meals, but because it is bad for little boys to eat such heavy food excepting at their regular meals. There are grown people who were once happy little children, but now they are very cross all the while because their stomachs are disordered by having eaten when they should not, and eating things which are richer and heavier than their bodies can use.”

“Well,” said Budge, crowding the contents of his mouth into his cheeks, “we can eat somethin’ plainer an’ lighter to mix up with ’em inside of us. I should think charlotte-russe or whipped cream would be about the thing. Shall I ask the cook to fix some?”

“No! Exercise would be better than anything else. I think you had better take a walk.”

“Up to Hawkshnesht Rock?” Toddie suggested.

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Budge. “An’ you come with us, Aunt Alice; perhaps you’ll look that way again; that way, you know, an’ I wouldn’t like to lose any of it.”

Mrs. Burton could not decline so delicate an invitation, and soon the trio were on the road, Mrs. Burton walking leisurely on the turf by the side, while the boys ploughed their way through the dust of the middle of the road, pretending to be horses and succeeding so far as to create a dust-cloud which no team of horses could have excelled.

“Boys, boys!” shouted Mrs. Burton. “Is no one going to be company for me?”

“Oh, I’ll be your gentleman,” said Budge.

“I’ll help,” said Toddie, and both boys hurried to their aunt’s side.

“Little boys,” said Mrs. Burton, gently, “do you know that your mamma and papa have to pay a high price for the fun you have in kicking up dust? Look at your clothes! They must be sent to the cleaner’s before they will ever again be fit to wear where respectable people can see you.”

“Then,” said Budge, “they’re just right to give to poor little boys, and just think how glad they’ll be! I guess they’ll thank the Lord ’cause we run in the dust.”

“The poor little boys would have been just as glad to have them while they were clean,” said Mrs. Burton, “and the kindness would have cost your papa and mamma no more.”

“Well, then—then—then I guess we’d better talk about something else,” said Budge, “an’ go ’long froo the woods instead of in the road. Oh—h—h!” he continued, kicking through some grass under the chestnut-trees by the roadside, “here’s a chestnut! Is it chestnut-time again already?”

“Oh, no, that’s one of last year’s nuts.”

“H’m!” exclaimed Budge; “I ought to have known that. It’s dreadfully old-fashioned.”

“Old-fashioned?”

“Yes; it’s full of wrinkles, don’t you see; like the face of Mrs. Paynter, an’ you say she’s old-fashioned.”

“Aunt Alice,” said Toddie, “birch-trees izh de only kind dat wearzsh Sunday clothes, ain’t dey? Deyzh always all in white, like me and Budgie, when we goes to Sunday-school. Gwacious!” he exclaimed, as he leaned against one of the birches and examined its outer garments. “Deyzh Sunday trees awful; dish one is singin’ a song! Dzust come—hark!”

Though somewhat startled at the range of Toddie’s imagination, and wondering what incentive it had on the present occasion, Mrs. Burton approached the tree, and solved the mystery by hearing the breeze sighing softly through the branches. She told Toddie what caused the sound, and the child replied:

“Den it’s de Lord come down to sing in it, ’cauzh it’s got Sunday clothes on. Datsh it, izhn’t it?”

“Oh, no, Toddie; the wind is only the wind.”

“Why I always fought it wazh the Lord a-talkin’, when the wind blowed. I guesh somebody tolded me so, ’cauzh I fought dat before I had many uvver finks.”

Up the mountain-road leisurely sauntered Mrs. Burton, while her nephews examined every large stone, boulder tree and hole in the ground en route.

The top of the hill was gained at last and with a long-drawn “Oh!” both boys sat down and gazed in delight at the extended scene before them. Budge broke the silence by asking:

“Aunt Alice, don’t you s’pose dear brother Phillie, up in heaven, is lookin’ at all these towns, an’ hills, an’ rivers, an’ things, just like we are?”

“Very likely, dear.”

“Well, then he can see a good deal further than we can. Do our spirits have new eyes put in ’em when they get up to heaven?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps they merely have their sight made better.”

“Why, does spirits take deir old eyes wif ’em to hebben, an’ leave all de rest part of ’em in de deader?” asked Toddie.

Mrs. Burton realized that she had been too hasty in assuming knowledge of spiritual physiognomy, and she endeavored to retract by saying:

“Spiritual eyes and bodily eyes are different.”

“Does dust and choo-choo cinders ever get into spirit eyes, an’ make little boy andzels cry, and growed-up andzels say swear wordsh?” asked Toddie.

“Certainly not. There’s no crying or swearing in heaven.”

“Then what does angels do with the water in their eyes, when they hear music that makes ’em feel as if wind was blowin’ fro ’em?” asked Budge.

Mrs. Burton endeavored to change the subject of conversation to one with which she was more familiar, by asking Budge if he knew that there were hills a hundred times as high as Hawksnest Rock.

“Goodness, no! Why, I should think you could look right into heaven from the tops of them. Can’t you?”

“No,” said Mrs. Burton, with some impatience at the result of her attempt.” Besides, their tops are covered with snow all the time, and nobody can get up to them.”

“Then the little boy andzels can play snowballs on ’em wifout no cross mans comin’ up an’ sayin’, ‘Don’t!’” said Toddie.

Mrs. Burton tried again:

“See how high that bird is flying,” she said, pointing to a hawk who was soaring far above the hill.

“Yes,” said Budge. “He can go up into heaven whenever he wants to, ’cause he’s got wings. I don’t know why birds have got wings and little boys haven’t.”

“Little boys are already hard enough to find when they’re wanted,” said Mrs. Burton. “If they had wings they’d always be out of sight. But what makes you little boys talk so much about heaven to-day?”

“Oh, ’cause we’re up so much closer to it, I suppose,” said Budge, “when were on a high hill like this.”

“Don’t you think it must be nearly lunching time?” asked Mrs. Burton, using, in despair, the argument which has seldom failed with healthy children.

“Certainly,” said Budge. “I always do. Come on, Tod. Let’s go the quickest way.”

The shortest way was by numerous short cuts, with which the boys seemed perfectly acquainted. One of these, however, was by a steep incline, and Budge, perhaps snuffing the lunch-basket afar off, descended so rapidly that he lost his balance, fell forward, tried to recover himself, failed, and slipped rapidly through a narrow path which finally ended in a gutter traversing it.

“Ow!” he exclaimed as he picked himself up, and relieved himself of a mouthful of mud. “Did you see my back come up an’ me walk down the mountain on my mouth? I think a snake would be ashamed of himself to see how easy it was. I didn’t try a bit, I just went slip, slop, bunk! to the bottom.”

“An’ you didn’t get scolded for dytyin’ your clothes, either.” said Toddie. “Let’ sing ‘Gloly, Gloly, Hallehelyah.”

The subject of dirt upon juvenile raiment began to trouble the mind of Mrs. Burton. Could it be possible that children had a natural right to dirtier clothing than adults, and without incurring special blame? Was dirtiness sinful? Well, yes—that is, it was disgusting, and whatever was disgusting was worse in the eyes of Mrs. Burton than what was sinful. Could children be as neat as adults? Had they either the requisite sense, perception or the acquired habit of carefulness? Again Mrs. Burton went into a study of the brownest description, while the children improved her moments of preoccupation to do all sorts of things which would have seemed dreadful to their aunt but were delightful to themselves. At length, however, they reached the Burton dining-table, and managed a series of rapid disappearances for whatever was upon it.

“Aunt Alice,” said Budge, after finishing his meal, “what are you going to do to make us happy this afternoon?”

“I think,” said Mrs. Burton,” I shall allow you to amuse yourselves. I shall be quite busy superintending the baking. Our cook has only recently come to us, you know, and she may need some help from me.”

“I fought bakin’ wazh alwaysh in mornin’?” said Toddie. “My mamma says dat only lazy peoplesh bakesh in affernoonzh.”

“The cook was too busily engaged otherwise this morning, Toddie,” said Mrs. Burton. “Besides, people bake mornings because they are compelled to; for, when they put bread to rise overnight, they must bake in the morning. But there is a new kind of yeast now that lets us make our bread whenever we want to, within a couple of hours from the time of beginning.”

“Do you know, Aunt Alice,” said Budge, “that we can bake? We can—real nice. We’ve helped mamma make pies an’ cakes lots of times, only hers are big ones an’ ours are baby ones.”

“I suppose I am to construe that remark as a hint that you would like to help me?” said Mrs. Burton. “If you will do only what you are told, you may go to the kitchen with me; but listen—the moment you give the cook or me the least bit of trouble, out you shall go.”

“Oh, goody, goody!” shouted Toddie. “An’ can we have tea-parties on de kitchen-table as fast as we bake fings?”

“I suppose so.”

“Come on. My hands won’t be still a bittie, I wantsh to work so much. How many kindsh of pies is you goin’ to make?”

“None at all.”

“Gwacious! I shouldn’t fink you’d call it bakin’-day den. Izhn’t you goin’ to make noffin’ but ole nashty bwead?”

“Perhaps I can find a way for you to make a little cake or some buns,” said Mrs. Burton, relenting.

“Well, that would be kind o’s bakin’-day like; but my hands is gettin’ still again awful fasht.”

Mrs. Burton led the way to the kitchen, and the preparation of the staff of life was begun by the new cook, with such assistance as a small boy wedged closely under each elbow, and two inquiring faces hanging over the very edge of the bread-pan.

“That don’t look very cakey,” remarked Budge. “She ain’t put any powder into it.”

“This kind of bread needs no powder. Baking-powders are used only in tea-biscuit.”

“When tea-biscuits goes in de oven deysh little bits of flat fings,” said Toddie—“deysh little bits of flat fings, but when dey comes out dey’s awful big an’ fat. What makes ’em bake big?”

“That’s what the powder is put in for,” said Mrs. Burton. “They’d be little, tasteless things if it weren’t for the powder. Bridget, work some sweetening with a little of the dough, so the boys can have some buns.”

Both boys escorted the cook to the pantry for sugar, and back again to the table, and got their noses as nearly as possible under the roller with which the sugar was crushed, and they superintended the operation of working it into the dough, and then Mrs. Burton found some very small pans in the center of which the boys put single buns which they were themselves allowed to shape. A happy inspiration came to Mrs. Burton; she brought a few raisins from the pantry and placed one upon the center of each tiny bun as it was made, and she was rewarded by a dual shriek of delight.

“Stop, Toddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, suddenly noticing that Toddie was shaping his dough by rolling it vigorously between his hands, as little boys treat clay while attempting to make marbles. “If you press your dough hard it will never bake light in the world.”

“You mean de hot won’t make it grow big?”

“Yes.”

“Datzh too baddy. It’h awful too baddy,” said Toddie “Dere won’t be as much of ’em to eat. Tell you what—put some powder in it to help the uvvr swelly stuff.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do any good.”

“Might twy it,” Toddie suggested. “Ah—h—h—Budgie’ makin’ some of my buns baldheaded.”

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

“He’s takin’ de raisins off de tops of ’em, an’ dat makes ’em baldheaded.”

“I was only keepin’ ’em from lookin’ all alike,” explained Budge, hastily putting the raisins where they could not be affected by any future proceedings. “Don’t you see, Toddie, you’ll have two kinds of buns now?”

“Don’t want two kindsh,” cried Toddie. “I’ze a good mind to cut you open an’ take dem heads back again.”

Budge was reproved by his aunt, and Toddie was pacified by the removal of raisins from his brother’s buns to his own. Then some of the little pans were placed in the vacant space in the oven, and during the next fifteen minutes Mrs. Burton was implored at least twenty times to see if they weren’t almost done. When, finally baked, Toddie’s were as small as bullets and about as hard.

“Put some powder in de rest of dem,” pleaded Toddie.

“It wouldn’t do the slightest bit of good,” said Mrs. Burton.

Further entreaties led to a conflict between will and authority, after which Toddie sulked and disappeared, carrying one of his precious pans with him. When he returned the baking was over, and the oven-door was open.

“Izhe a-goin’ to bake dis uvver one any how,” said Toddie, putting the single remaining pan into the oven and closing the door. “Say, Aunt Alice,” he continued, his good, nature returning, “now fix dat tea-party we was goin’ to have wif our own fings. You can come to the table wif us if you want to.”

“Only, don’t you think she ought to bring somethin’ with her?” asked Budge. “That’ the way little boys’s tea-parties out of doors always are.”

Mrs. Burton herself rendered a satisfactory decision upon this question by making a small pitcher of lemonade: the table was drawn as near the door as possible, to avoid the heat of the room; Budge escorted his aunt to the seat of honor, and, when all were seated, he asked:

“Do you think these is enough things to ask a blessin’ over? Sometimes we do it, an’ sometimes we don’t, ’cordin’ to how much we’ve got.”

Mrs. Burton rapidly framed a small explanatory lecture on the principle under-lying the custom of grace at meals; but whatever may have been its merits the boys never had an opportunity of judging, for suddenly a loud report startled the party, a piece of the stove flew violently across the room and broke against the wall, the stove-lids shivered violently and the doors fell open; the poker, which had lain on the stove, danced frantically, and a small pan of some sort of fat, such as some cooks have a fancy to be always doing something with but never do it, was shaken over and its burning contents began to diffuse a sickening odor. The cook dropped upon her knees, the party arose—Budge roaring, Toddie screaming, and Mrs. Burton very pale, while the cook gasped:

“The wather-back’s busted!”

Mrs. Burton disengaged herself from her clinging nephews and approached the range cautiously. There was no sign of water and the back of the range was undisturbed; even the fire was not disarranged.

“It isn’t the water-back,” said Mrs. Burton, “nor the fire. What could it have been?”

“An’ I belave, mum,” said the cook, “that ’twas the dhivil, savin’ yer prisince; an’, saints presarve us! I ’ve heerd at home as how he hated dese new ways of cookin’, because dheres no foine place for him to sit in the corner of, bad luck to him! It was the dhivil, sure, mum. Did iver ye schmell the loike av that?”

Mrs. Burton snuffed the air, and in spite of the loathsome odor of burning grease she detected a strong sulphurous odor.

“An’ he went and tookted my last bun wif him too,” complained Toddie, who had been cautiously approaching the oven in which he had placed his pan. “Bad ole debbil! I fought he didn’t have noffin but roasted peoples at hizh tea-parties!”

The whole party was too much agitated and mystified to pursue their investigations further. The fire was allowed to die out and Mrs. Burton hurried up-stairs and to the front of the house with the children.

Mr. Burton on his way home was met by his wife and nephews, and heard a tale which had reached blood-curdling proportions. His descent to the scene of the disaster was reluctantly consented to by his wife; but he was unable to discover the cause of the accident, and he succeeded in getting his hands shockingly dirty. He hurried to his bed-chamber to wash them, and in a moment he roared from the head of the stairs:

“Boys, which of you has been up here to-day?”

There was no response for a moment; then Budge shouted:

“Not me.”

Mrs. Burton looked inquiringly at Toddie, and the young gentleman averted his eyes. Then Mr. Burton hurried down-stairs, looked at both boys and asked: “Why did you meddle with my powder-flask, Toddie?”

“Why—why—why, Aunt Alice wouldn’t put no powder in my buns to make ’em light after I rolled ’em heavy—said ’twouldn’t do ’em no good. But my papa says ’tain’t never no harm to try, so I dzust wented and gotted some powder out of your brass bottle dat’s hanging on your gun, an’ I didn’t say nuffin’ to nobody, ’cauzh I wanted to s’prise ’em. An’ while I was waitin’ for it to get done, bad ole debbil came an’ hookted it. Guesh it must have been real good else he wouldn’t have done it, ’cauzh he’s such a smart fief he can steal de nicest fings he wantsh—whole cakeshop windows full.”

“How did you mix it with the dough?—how much did you take?” Mrs. Burton demanded.

“Didn’t mix it at all,” said Toddie; “dzush pourded it on de pan azh full azh I could. You’d fink I’d have to, if you tried to eat one of my buns dat didn’t have no powder in. Gwacious! wasn’t dey hard? I couldn’t bite ’em a bit—I dzust had to swallow ’em whole.”

“Umph!” growled Mr. Burton. “And do you know who the devil—the little devil was that—”

“Harry!”

“Well, my dear, the truth appears to be this; your nephew——”

“Your nephew, Mr. Burton.”

“Well, my—our nephew, put into the oven this afternoon about enough of gunpowder to charge a six-pounder shell, and the heat of the oven gradually became too much for it.”

Toddie had listened to this conversation with an air of anxious inquiry, and at last timidly asked:

“Wazhn’t it de right kind of powder? I fought it wazh, ’cauzh it makes everyfing else light when it goezh off.”

“Do you suppose your method of training will ever prevail against that boy’s logic, my dear?” asked Mrs. Burton. “And if it won’t, what will?”

“I won’t put so much in nexsht time,” said Toddie, “’cauzh ’tain’t no good to twy a fing an’ den have de tryin’ stuff go an’ take de fing all away from you an’ get so mad as to bweak stoves to bits an’ scare little boysh an’ Aunt Alishes ’most to deff.”