“Why, listen there! Ah-ha!” laughed Tude, clapping her hands and dancing gayly around his chair.—“Why, you old melancholy Dane, you! are you actually _sighing_?” Then, dropping into a tragic air of deep contrition, she continued: “‘But, believe me, I would not question you, but to console you, Wilford. I would scorn to pry into any one’s grief, much more yours, Wilford, to satisfy a busy curiosity.’” “Oh, don’t, Tude; don’t _rehearse_ like that at me!—I can’t a-bear it.” And the serious Mr. Twiggs held out his hand as though warding off a blow. At this appeal the girl’s demeanor changed to one of tenderest solicitude. “Why, Pop’m,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, “I did not mean to vex you—forgive me. I was only trying to be happy, as I ought, although my own heart is this very minute heavy—very heavy—very.—No, no; I don’t mean that—but, Father, Father, I have not been dutiful.” “W’y, yes, you have,” broke in Mr. Twiggs, smothering the heavy exclamation in his handkerchief. “You ain’t been ondutiful, nor nothink else. You’re jest all and everythink that heart could wish. It’s all my own fault, Tudens; it’s all my fault. You see, I git to thinkin’ sometimes like I was a-goin’ to _lose_ you; and now that you are a-comin’ on in years, and gittin’ such a fine start, and all, and position and everythink.—Yes-sir! _position_, ’cause everybody likes you, Tudens. You know that; and I’m that proud of you and all, and that selfish, that it’s onpossible I could ever, ever give you up;—never, never, _ever_ give you up!” And Mr. Twiggs again stifled his voice in his handkerchief and blew his nose with prolonged violence. It may have been the melancholy ticking of the clock, as it grated on the silence following, it may have been the gathering darkness of the room, or the plaintive sighing of the rising wind without, that caused the girl to shudder as she stooped to kiss the kind old face bent forward in the shadows, and turned with feigned gayety to the simple task of arranging supper. But when, a few minutes later, she announced that Twiggs and Tudens’s tea was waiting, the two smilingly sat down, Mr. Twiggs remarking that if he only knew a blessing, he’d ask it upon that occasion most certainly. “—For on’y look at these-’ere ’am and eggs,” he said, admiringly: “I’d like to know if the Queen herself could cook ’em to a nicer turn, or serve ’em up more tantaliz’in’er to the palate. And this-’ere soup,—or whatever it is, is rich as gravy; and these boughten rolls ain’t a bad thing either, split in two and toasted as you do ’em, air they, Tude?” And as Mr. Twiggs glanced inquiringly at his companion, he found her staring vacantly at her plate. “I was jest a-sayin’, Tudens—” he went on, pretending to blow his tea and glancing cautiously across his saucer. “Yes, Pop’m, I heard you;—we really _ought_ to have a blessing, by all means.”