"Willy," she went on, in her loud, cheerful voice, "do you doctor-men smile at one another when you meet, like the Augurs, because you fool us so easily with your big words? You call a scratched finger an 'abrasion of the epidermis'--and then you send a bill. And, bless me! what a serious air you put on at a minute's notice!--I saw you pull your leg in, Willy. Come, now; you were in my Sunday-school class--why don't you just admit to me that that piercing look over your eye-glasses is one of the tricks of the trade? I won't tell." William King chuckled. "You just get a touch of lumbago, Miss Harriet, and you'll believe in my tricks." "Lumbago!" said his reviler. "Not I; a day's shooting would cure it quicker than a barrel of your pills." "Been shooting this morning?" "No; I set a trap in Dawson's hollow." She pulled out the rabbit and held it up. "Not a bone broken. Handsome, isn't he? Poor little thing!" William looked at the soft, furry creature, limp in the big brown hand, with critical appreciation. "Yes, beautiful. Miss Annie didn't find him, to let him out?" The hunter's face changed to amused impatience. "Willy, she opened three traps last week. And she was so shrewd about it; you would never believe how clever she is. Of course it's no use to scold." "Of course not. What excuse does she make?" "Oh, just the same thing: 'Sister, it hurts me to think they can't get out.'" "Poor thing!" said the doctor. "I have tried to make her promise not to interfere with the traps. You know, if I could once get a promise out of her I would be all right; Annie never broke a promise in her life. But she is too shrewd to be led into it. She always says, 'I'm the oldest, and you mustn't order me round.' It would be funny if it weren't so provoking." "Poor thing!" said the doctor again. "She follows me and takes the bait out of the traps once in a while; but she prefers to let things go. And she is certainly wonderfully bright about it," Miss Harriet said. "Now, why can't she be sensible in other things?" "Well, you know she has always been about twelve; it's the young head on old shoulders." "I must tell you her last performance," Miss Harriet said. "You know that picture of Aunt Gordon that hung in the dining-room? Dreadful thing! I never saw the poor woman, but I believe she wasn't quite as ugly as that portrait, though Alex looks just like her, Dr. Lavendar says; and Alex is dreadfully ugly, with those pale eyes of his. Well, I happened to say--it was last Tuesday, at tea, and Matty Barkley was there: 'That picture of Aunt Gordon is awful! I can't bear it.' Of course I never thought of it again, until I came home the next day--and what do you suppose?" Willy began to grin. "Yes! she had got up on a chair, if you please, and cut it out of the frame and slashed it all to pieces." "Well done!" said Willy King, slapping his thigh. "No such thing. It was ugly, but it was a family portrait."