"They're all O.K.," responded the boy. He had his paint-box before him, and was painting the Indians in his History. "Well, go to bed, then." "Yes, 'm." At half-past ten, happening to turn her head while she cut open the pages of her novel, she saw that he was still there. "Maso, do you hear me? Go to bed." "Yes, 'm." He painted faster, making hideous grimaces with his protruded lips, which unconsciously followed the strokes of his brush up and down. The picture finished at last, he rose. "Mr. Tiber, pim." Mr. Tiber left the sofa, where he had been sleeping since the termination of the lessons, and hopped to the floor. Here he indulged in a stretch; first, hind legs; then fore legs; then a hunch of his back and a deep yawn. He was a very small black-and-tan terrier, with a pretty little head and face. Maso's voice now gave a second summons from his bedroom, which was next to his mother's, with a door between. "Are you coming, Mr. Tiber? _Very_ well!" Mr. Tiber, hearing this, ran as fast as he could scamper into his master's chamber. Here he had his own bed, composed of a flat basket containing what Maso called "a really mattress," and a pillow with a pillow-case, a blanket, and red coverlid, each article bearing an embroidered T in the corner, surmounted by a coronet; for Mr. Tiber was supposed to be a nobleman. The nobleman went to bed, and was tucked in with his head on the pillow. This was Maso's rule; but very soon the head assumed its normal position, curled round on the little black tail. At eleven, Mrs. Roscoe finished her novel and threw it down. "Women who write don't know much about love-affairs," was her reflection. "And those of us who have love-affairs don't write!" She rose. "Maso, you here still? I thought you went to bed an hour ago!" "Well, I did begin. I put my shoes outside." He extended his shoeless feet in proof. "Then I just came back for a minute." His mother looked over his shoulder. "That same old fairy-book! Who would suppose you were twelve years old?" "Thirteen," said Maso, coloring. "So you are. But only two weeks ago. Never mind; you'll be a tall man yet--a great big thing striding about, whom I shall not care half so much for as I do for my little boy." She kissed him. "All your father's family are tall, and you look just like them." Maso nestled closer as she stood beside him. "How did father look? I don't remember him much." "Much? You don't remember him at all; he died when you were six months old--a little teenty baby." "I say, mother, how long have we been over here?" "I came abroad when you were not quite two." "Aren't we ever going back?" "If you could once see Coesville!" was Mrs. Roscoe's emphatic reply. II