“Oh—oo—ee, so do I,” shouted Budge, hastening to occupy one knee, and _in transitu_ wiping his shoes on my trousers and the skirts of my coat. Each imp put an arm about me to steady himself, as I produced my three-hundred dollar time-keeper, and showed them the dial. “I want to see the wheels go round,” said Budge. “Want to shee wheels go wound,” echoed Toddie. “No; I can’t open my watch where there’s so much dust,” I said. “What for?” inquired Budge. “Want to shee the wheels go wound,” repeated Toddie. “The dust gets inside the watch and spoils it,” I explained. “Want to shee the wheels go wound,” said Toddie, once more. “I tell you I can’t, Toddie,” said I, with considerable asperity. “Dust spoils watches.” The innocent gray eyes looked up wonderingly, the dirty but pretty lips parted slightly, and Toddie murmured:— “Want to shee the wheels go wound.” I abruptly closed my watch, and put it into my pocket. Instantly Toddie’s lower lip commenced to turn outward, and continued to do so, until I seriously feared the bony portion of his chin would be exposed to view. Then his lower jaw dropped, and he cried:— “Ah—h—h—h—h—h—want—to—shee—the wheels—go wou—_ound_.” “Charles” (Charles is his baptismal name),—“Charles,” I exclaimed, with some anger, “stop that noise this instant! Do you hear me?” “Yes—oo—oo—oo—ahoo—ahoo.” “Then stop it.” “Wants to shee——” “Toddie, I’ve got some candy in my trunk, but I won’t give you a bit if you don’t stop that infernal noise.” “Well, I wants to shee wheels go wound. Ah—ah—h—h—h—h!” “Toddie, dear, don’t cry so. Here’s some ladies coming in a carriage; you wouldn’t let _them_ see you crying, would you? You shall see the wheels go round as soon as we get home.” [Illustration: “WHEELS GO WOUND”] A carriage containing a couple of ladies was rapidly approaching, as Toddie again raised his voice. “Ah—h—h—want’s to shee wheels——” Madly I snatched my watch from my pocket, opened the case, and exposed the works to view. The other carriage was passing ours, and I dropped my head to avoid meeting the glance of the unknown occupants, for my few moments of contact with my dreadful nephews had made me feel inexpressibly unneat. Suddenly the carriage with the ladies stopped. I heard my own name spoken, and, raising my head quickly (encountering Budge’s bullet head _en route_, to the serious disarrangement of my hat), I looked into the other carriage. There, erect, fresh, neat, composed, bright-eyed, fair-faced, smiling and observant,—she would have been all this, even if the angel of the resurrection had just sounded his dreadful trump,—sat Miss Alice Mayton, a lady who, for about a year, I had been adoring from afar.