“Well, then, let me help you. You sit down in your big easy-chair, and I will put George Thomas to bed in his basket. He is very sleepy. And I will bring you all the things you want to pack in the bag,” Owlet insisted. And she laid her pet in his nest, and came and stood before her benefactress in an attitude of attention. “But I have quite finished now, dear, and there is nothing more to do,” Roma explained. “Well, if I can’t be useful I might as well be dead,” said Owlet with an aggrieved air. “Dear child! Why should you say such things?” “I heard Mrs. Brown talking to somebody, and she said people who are of no use in the world had better be out of it.” “But that was a hard saying; besides, do you not think that the Lord knows when it is best to take any one out of the world?” “You’ve got me there,” said Owlet. “I give in.” “That is right.” “And anybody who would not give in when they are wrong is not possessed of common sense,” concluded Owlet. At eight o’clock Mr. Merritt came to spend his last evening with Roma. Owlet was allowed to sit up with them. “I wonder what you will do with this child?” inquired the lawyer in an aside to Roma. “I shall do with her, if I should be permitted to keep her, just what I should do with a little orphan sister, if I were blessed with one.” “Well, now, Roma, my child, I did not come here to loaf. What can I do for you in the way of preparation for to-morrow? Any trunk to cord up, or to sit down on, or to be dispatched to the express office? In short, anything to be done that I can do for you?” inquired Mr. Merritt. “No, nothing, thank you. Our baggage has all been sent off, and you have nothing to do except to sit here and give us your company, so long as you can spare the time,” Roma replied. “Yes,” added Owlet, striking into the conversation, “you need not think we only like to see you for what you can do for us. We like to see you because we like you.” “Thank you, ma’am; that is very complimentary,” laughed the old lawyer. “I meant it to be,” said Owlet solemnly. “Now, Roma, my dear,” said Mr. Merritt, as he rose to bid them good-night, “instead of meeting you at the depot at nine o’clock to-morrow morning, as I had first intended to do, I shall call here with a carriage at half-past eight to take you and the child there.” “Oh, dear friend, do not put yourself to that trouble,” Roma objected. “But, my child, it will give me half an hour more to spend in your company, and that will be a great boon to a poor old fellow who is about to lose you, for heaven knows how many months,” sighed the old lawyer, lugubriously. “You take a holiday every summer, I suppose?” “Last summer contained the first holiday I have had since my college days.” “But you will certainly take a holiday this summer?” “Oh, yes, and every summer henceforth, so long as I live, please the Lord.” “Then come and spend this next one with us among the wooded hills of Maryland.”