"I don't want to be like Ally Glover," replied Horace, making a wry face; "he's lame, and besides, he's too dreadful good." "Why, Horace," said his sister, solemnly; "anybody can't be too good; 'tisn't possible." "Well, then, he's just like a girl--that's what! I'm not going to be 'characteristic' any more, but I don't want to be like a girl neither. Look here, Grace; it's school time. Now don't you 'let on' to ma, or anybody, that I'm going to be better." Grace promised, but she wondered why Horace should not wish his mother to know he was trying to be good, when it would make her so happy. "He's afraid he'll give it up," thought she; "but I won't let him." She sat on the piazza steps a long while after he had gone. At last a bright idea flashed across her mind, and of course she dropped her work and clapped her hands, though she was quite alone. "I'll make a merit-book like Miss All'n's, and put down black marks for him when he's naughty." When Horace came home that night, he was charmed with the plan, for he was really in earnest. His kind sister made the book very neatly, and sewed it into a cover of glossy blue paper. She thought they would try it four weeks; so she had put in twenty-eight pages, each page standing for one day. "Now," said she, "when you say one bad word I'll put down 'one B. W.' for short; but when you say two bad words, 'twill be 'two B. W.,' you know. When you blow gunpowder, that'll be 'B. G.'--no, 'B. G. P.' for gunpowder is two words." "And when I run off, 'twill be 'R. O.'" "Or 'R. A.,' said Grace, for 'ran away.'" "And 'T.' for 'troutin'," said Horace, who was getting very much interested; "and--and--'P. A. L.' for 'plaguing aunt Louise,' and 'C.' for 'characteristic,' and 'L. T.' for 'losing things.'" "O, dear, dear, Horace, the book won't begin to hold it! We mustn't put down those little things." "But, Grace, you know I shan't do 'em any more." Grace shook her head, and sighed. "We won't put down all those little things," repeated she; "we'll have 'D.' for 'disobedience,' and 'B. W.,' and--O! one thing I forgot--'F.' for 'falsehood.'" "Well, you won't get any F's out of me, by hokey," said Horace, snapping his fingers. "Why, there it is, 'one B. W.' so quick!" cried Grace, holding up both hands and laughing. Horace opened his mouth in surprise, and then clapped his hand over it in dismay. It was not a very fortunate beginning. "Look here, Grace," said he, making a wry face; "I move we call that no 'count, and commence new to-morrow!" So Grace waited till next day before she dated the merit-book. All this while Pincher's foot was growing no better. Aunt Louise said you could almost see the poor dog 'dwindle, peak, and pine.' "But it's only his hurt," said Grace; "'tisn't a sickness." "I reckon," returned Horace, sadly, "it isn't a _wellness_, neither." "Why not send for Mrs. Duffy?" suggested aunt Madge. "If any one can help the poor creature, it is she."