“Then you’s a baddy man, an’ de Lord won’t let you go to heaven if you don’t love peoples.” “Yes, Budge,” I answered hastily, “I _do_ know how to make whistles, and you shall have one.” “Lord don’t like mans what don’t love peoples,” reiterated Toddie. “All right, Toddie,” said I. “I’ll see if I can’t please the Lord some way. Driver, whip up, won’t you? I’m in a hurry to turn these youngsters over to the girl, and ask her to drop them into the bath-tub.” [Illustration: DROPPING THEM INTO THE BATHTUB] I found Helen had made every possible arrangement for my comfort. Her room commanded exquisite views of mountain slope and valley, and even the fact that the imps’ bedroom adjoined mine gave me comfort, for I thought of the pleasure of contemplating them while they were asleep, and beyond the power of tormenting their deluded uncle. At the supper-table Budge and Toddie appeared cleanly clothed and in their rightful faces. Budge seated himself at the table; Toddie pushed back his high-chair, climbed into it, and shouted:— “Put my legs under ze tabo!” Rightfully construing this remark as a request to be moved to the table, I fulfilled his desire. The girl poured tea for me and milk for the children, and retired; and then I remembered, to my dismay, that Helen never had a servant in the dining-room, except upon grand occasions, her idea being that servants retail to their friends the cream of the private conversation of the family circle. In principle I agreed with her, but the penalty of the practical application, with these two little cormorants on my hands, was greater suffering than any I had ever been called upon to endure for principle’s sake; but there was no help for it. I resignedly rapped on the table, bowed my head, said, “For what we are about to receive, the Lord make us thankful,” and asked Budge whether he ate bread or biscuit. “Why, we ain’t asked no blessin’ yet,” said he. “Yes, I did, Budge,” said I. “Didn’t you hear me?” “Do you mean what you said just now?” “Yes.” “Oh, I don’t think that was no blessin’ at all. Papa never says that kind of a blessin’.” “What does papa say, may I ask?” I inquired, with becoming meekness. “Why, papa says, ’Our Father, we thank thee for this food; mercifully remember with us all the hungry and needy to-day, for Christ’s sake, Amen.’ That’s what he says.” “It means the same thing, Budge.” “_I_ don’t think it does; and Toddie didn’t have no time to say _his_ blessin’. I don’t think the Lord’ll like it if you do it that way.” “Yes, He will, old boy; He knows what people mean.” “Well, how can he tell what Toddie means if Toddie can’t say anything?” “Wantsh to shay my blessin’,” whined Toddie.