“That’s just like you, Grace, always ready and willing to do for every one,” answered Sophy. “Of course he is an invalid—all nabobs are. He has the gout, and we must all creep on tip-toe about the room, lest an unlucky jar might give him a twinge, and bring down a volley, not of blessings, upon our devoted heads. Then the liver complaint is a necessary appendage, and blue pills and calomel will abound. Bah! what a house it will be to be sure, I should not wonder if he has a pet monkey and half a dozen macaws, and we shall have a menagerie and hospital combined. If such _is_ the case, I shall run off and get married; so don’t wonder if some morning I am missing.” “And thus forfeit your claim to the fortune in store,” said her sister; “for my part I am willing to take a pill every other day, in the hope that it will prove at last a gilded one, and will feed the macaws to a surfeit—” “In fact, kill them with kindness,” interrupted Sophy, laughing. “Well, you are welcome to all you can get, the pill will be bitter if it _is_ gilded; I love my ease too well to be shackled even with golden fetters; so Grace and you may divide the labor and the reward.” “Grace will of course do whatever is required of her,” said Mrs. Medway gravely, “but as she has no claim of kindred upon your uncle, she will not expect any other return than my approval. And now girls we have spent a long time chatting; I must go and prepare for our newly arrived relative’s coming, and remember, Sophy, that you treat him with all deference and respect; you might have a little natural feeling—” “All fudge, mamma,” laughed Sophy, rising from her seat; “talk of natural feeling, indeed, for a cross old fidgety fellow one never saw, and scarcely ever heard of, except when he sent you that superb India shawl. I tell you, mamma, it is a natural feeling for his presents and his rupees that inspires you and Matilda; I will none of them except they come in a _natural_ way, without any force put on my inclination. You know I am a little Pickle, and I intend to be as sour as vinegar.” “And I as sweet as honey-water,” cried Matilda, as she left the room. “Yes, and as insipid, too,” replied her sister, following. “As for you, Grace,” she added, looking back, “as you fortunately have no selfish considerations, you can afford to be, as you always are, ‘Simple Grace, gracious and graceful,’” so saying, the noisy girl slammed the door after her, leaving Grace to her daily duty of washing the breakfast things, and arranging the room.