"I know that, I know that; as long as you're allowed to wander at your own sweet will, lie on haystacks, rifle birds' nests, strip the apple and cherry trees, hunt rats and rabbits, and, above all, do no lessons, and make no attempt to improve your minds in any way, you will be happy. But the question is, How long will these doubtful means of happiness be left to you? Acre after acre, farm after farm, has slipped from the family within the last thirty years. You have now but nominal possession of the house, garden, orchard, and part of the grove--only nominal possession, remember, for the place is mortgaged to the last farthing; the very pictures on the wall, the chairs you sit on, the china in the pantry, are all security for borrowed money. And--and, children"--impressively--"it is best for you to know the worst. If--if your--your father should cease to pay the interest on this money, why, his creditors could seize on this place and turn you out homeless on the roadside at an hour's notice!" There is a deep silence; then comes a protesting outburst. Robert's dark face flushes wrathfully as he exclaims-- "But--but, Aunt Jo, he--he will--he must pay the interest, and give me a chance of reclaiming my birthright. He--he couldn't be so--so bad as to let that lapse under the circumstances." "Circumstances may be too strong for him." "In any case," says Pauline hopefully, "the creditors couldn't be so heartless, so devoid of all feelings of humanity as to turn us out like that; they must wait until some of us are dead, or married, or something. Where could we go?" "Your father's creditors are Jews, Pauline; they are not famed for humanity or forbearance. However, as you say, children, it is best to look at the bright side of things, and trust in the mercy of Heaven." "And in the mercy of a Jew too!" chimes in Addie. "'Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions--fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter, as a Christian is? If you prick him, does he not bleed? If you tickle him, does he not laugh? If you poison him, does he not--'" "Bravo, Addie--bravo; well done!" "That was tall spouting, and no mistake! Where did you pick it all up?" "That's Shakespeare," Addie answers, lifting her rosy pale face proudly--"it is from the 'Merchant of Venice;' I read the whole play through yesterday, and enjoyed it greatly." "You imagined you did, my dear." "Nothing of the kind, Robert; I found it most interesting." "Don't tell me, Addie," says Pauline, with a tantalizing laugh, "that you found it as interesting as 'The Children of the Abbey,' 'The Castle of Otranto,' or 'The Heir of Redcliffe,' for I won't believe you."