"There is a vein of essential vulgarity in both the brothers," said the lady. "I don't think so," returned the colonel; and there the conversation ended. Adela was practising at her piano the greater part of the day. The weather would not admit of a walk. When we were all seated once more for our reading and Mrs. Armstrong had her paper in her hand, after a little delay of apparent irresolution, she said all at once: "Ralph, I can't read. Will you read it for me?" "Do try to read it yourself, my dear," said her husband. "I am sure I shall break down," she answered. "If you were able to write it, surely you are able to read it," said the colonel. "I know what my difficulty would be." "It is a very different thing to read one's own writing. I could read anything else well enough.--Will you read it for me, Henry?" "With pleasure, if it must be any other than yourself. I know your handwriting nearly as well as my own. It's none of your usual lady-hands-all point and no character. But what do you say, Ralph?" "Read it by all means, if she will have it so. The company has had enough of my reading. It will be a change of voice at least." I saw that Adela looked pleasedly expectant. "Pray don't look for much," said Mrs. Armstrong in a pleading tone. "I assure you it is nothing, or at best a mere trifle. But I could not help myself, without feeling obstinate. And my husband lays so much on the cherished obstinacy of Lady Macbeth, holding that to be the key to her character, that he has terrified me from every indulgence of mine." She laughed very sweetly; and her husband joining in the laugh, all further hindrance was swept away in the music of their laughter; and Harry, taking the papers from his sister's hand, commenced at once. It was partly in print, and partly in manuscript. "MY UNCLE PETER. "I will tell you the story of my Uncle Peter, who was born on Christmas-day. He was very anxious to die on Christmas-day as well; but I must confess that was rather ambitious in Uncle Peter. Shakespeare is said to have been born on St. George's-day, and there is some ground for believing that he died on St. George's-day. He thus fulfilled a cycle. But we cannot expect that of any but great men, and Uncle Peter was not a great man, though I think I shall be able to show that he was a good man. The only pieces of selfishness I ever discovered in him were, his self-gratulation at having been born on Christmas-day, and the ambition with regard to his death, which I have just recorded; and that this selfishness was not of a kind to be very injurious to his fellowmen, I think I shall be able to show as well.