“It were a tryin’ thing, though,” he went on, his mellow features settling into a look not at all in keeping with his shiny complexion—“it were a tryin’ thing, and it _air_ a tryin’ thing to see them lovely arms o’ hern a-twinin’ so lovin’-like around that-’ere Stanley’s neck and a-kissin’ of him—as she’s obleeged to do, of course—as the ‘properties’ of the play demands; but I’m blowed if she wouldn’t do it quite so nat’ral-like I’d feel easier. Blow me!” he broke off savagely, starting up and flinging his pipe in the ashes, “I’m about a-comin’ to the conclusion I ain’t got no more courage’n a blasted school-boy! Here I am old enough to be her father—mighty nigh it—and yet I’m actually afeard to speak up and tell her jest how things is, and all, and how I feel like I—like I—ort’o—ort’o—” “_Ortokindo! Ortokindo!_” shrieked the parrot, clinging in a reversed position to the under-round of a chair.—“_Ortokindo! Ortokindo! Tude’s come home!—Tude’s come home!_” And as though in happy proof of this latter assertion, the gentle Mr. Twiggs found his chubby neck encircled by a pair of rosy arms, and felt upon his cheek the sudden pressure of a pair of lips that thrilled his old heart to the core. And then the noisy bird dropped from its perch and marched pompously from its place of concealment, trailing its rusty wings and shrieking, “Tude’s come home!” at the top of its brazen voice. “Shet up!” screamed Mr. Twiggs, with a pretended gust of rage, kicking lamely at the feathered oracle; “I’ll ‘Tude’s-come-home’ ye! W’y, a feller can’t hear his _ears_ for your infernal squawkin’!” And then, turning toward the serious eyes that peered rebukingly into his own, his voice fell gentle as a woman’s: “Well, there, Tudens, I beg parding; I do indeed. Don’t look at me thataway. I know I’m a great, rough, good-for—”But a warm, swift kiss cut short the utterance; and as the girl drew back, still holding the bright old face between her tender palms, he said simply, “You’re a queer girl, Tudens; a queer girl.” “Ha! am I?” said the girl, in quite evident heroics and quotation, starting back with a theatrical flourish and falling into a fantastic attitude.—“‘Troth, I am sorry for it; me poor father’s heart is bursting with gratichude, and he would fain ease it by pouring out his thanks to his benefactor.’” “Werry good! Werry good, indeed!” said Mr. Twiggs, gazing wistfully upon the graceful figure of the girl. “You’re a-growin’ more wonderful’ clever in your ‘presence’ every day, Tude. You don’t think o’ nothink else but your actin’, do ye, now?” And, as Mr. Twiggs concluded his observations, a something very like a sigh came faltering from his lips.