As he spoke, the offending youth came panting beside our carriage, and in a very dirty sailor-suit, and under a broad-brimmed straw hat, with one stocking about his ankle, and two shoes averaging about two buttons each, I recognized my nephew, Budge! About the same time there emerged from the bushes by the roadside a smaller boy, in a green gingham dress, a ruffle which might once have been white, dirty stockings, blue slippers worn through at the toes, and an old-fashioned straw turban. Thrusting into the dust of the road a branch from a bush, and shouting, “Here’s my grass-cutter!” he ran toward us enveloped in a “pillar of cloud,” which might have served the purpose of Israel in Egypt. When we paused, and the dust had somewhat subsided, I beheld the unmistakable lineaments of the child Toddie! “They’re—my nephews,” I gasped. “What!” exclaimed the driver. “By gracious! I forgot you were going to Colonel Lawrence’s! I didn’t tell anything but the truth about ’em, though; they’re smart enough, an’ good enough, as boys go; but they’d never die of the complaint that children has in Sunday-school books.” “Budge,” said I, with all the sternness I could command, “do you know me?” The searching eyes of the embryo prophet and philanthropist scanned me for a moment, then their owner replied: “Yes, you’re Uncle Harry. Did you bring us anything?” “Bring us anything?” echoed Toddie. “I wish I could have brought you some big whippings,” said I, with great severity of manner, “for behaving so badly. Get into this carriage.” “Come on, Tod,” shouted Budge, although Toddie’s farther ear was not a yard from Budge’s mouth, “Uncle Harry’s going to take us riding!” [Illustration: “HERE’S MY GRASS-CUTTER”] “Going to take us riding!” echoed Toddie, with the air of one in a reverie; both the echo and the reverie I soon learned were characteristics of Toddie. As they clambered into the carriage I noticed that each one carried a very dirty towel, knotted in the center into what is known as a slip-noose knot, drawn very tight. After some moments of disgusted contemplation of these rags, without being in the least able to comprehend their purpose, I asked Budge what those towels were for. “They’re not towels—they’re dollies,” promptly answered my nephew. “Goodness!” I exclaimed. “I should think your mother could buy you respectable dolls, and not let you appear in public with those loathsome rags.” “We don’t like buyed dollies,” explained Budge. “These dollies is lovely; mine’s name is Mary, an’ Toddie’s is Marfa.” “Marfa?” I queried. “Yes; don’t you know about ‘Marfa and Mary’s jus’ gone along To ring dem charmin’ bells,’ that them Jubilees sings about?” “Oh, Martha, you mean?” “Yes, Marfa—that’s what I say. Toddie’s dolly’s got brown eyes, an’ my dolly’s got blue eyes.” “I want to shee yours watch,” remarked Toddie, snatching at my chain, and rolling into my lap.