“I guess he is, then,” said Budge, ”’cos he’s ev’rything he ought to be. He’s awful careful. T’other day, when the goat ran away, an’ Toddie an’ me got in the carriage with them, he held on to her tight, so she couldn’t fall out.” Mrs. Mayton brought her foot down with a violent stamp. “I know you’d ’spect _him_, if you knew how nice he was,” continued Budge. “He sings awful funny songs, an’ tells splendid stories.” “Nonsense!” exclaimed the angry mother. “They ain’t no nonsense at all,” said Budge. “I don’t think it’s nice for to say that, when his stories are always about Joseph, an’ Abraham, an’ Moses, an’ when Jesus was a little boy, an’ the Hebrew children, an’ lots of people that the Lord loved. An’ he’s awful ’fectionate, too.” “Yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Mayton. “When we says our prayers we prays for the nice lady what he ’spects, an’ he likes us to do it,” continued Budge. “How do you know?” demanded Mrs. Mayton. ”’Cos he always kisses us when we do it an’ that’s what my papa does when he likes what we pray.” Mrs. Mayton’s mind became absorbed in earnest thought, but Budge had not said all that was in his heart. “An’ when Toddie or me tumbles down an hurts ourselves, ’tain’t no matter what Uncle Harry’s doin’, he runs right out an’ picks us up an’ comforts us. He froed away a cigar the other day, he was in such a hurry when a wasp stung me, an’ Toddie picked the cigar up and ate it, an’ it made him _awful_ sick.” The last-named incident did not affect Mrs. Mayton deeply, perhaps on the score of inapplicability to the question before her. Budge went on:— “An’ wasn’t he good to me to-day? Just ’cos I was forlorn, ’cos I hadn’t nobody to play with, an’ wanted to die an’ go to heaven, he stopped shavin’, so as to comfort me.” Mrs. Mayton had been thinking rapidly and seriously, and her heart had relented somewhat toward the principal offender. “Suppose,” she said, “that I don’t let my little girl go riding with him any more?” “Then,” said Budge, “I know he’ll be awful, awful unhappy, an’ I’ll be awful sorry for him, ’cos nice folks oughtn’t to be made unhappy.” “Suppose, then, that I _do_ let her go?” said Mrs. Mayton. [Illustration: MADE HIM AWFUL SICK] “Then I’ll give you a whole stomachful of kisses for being so good to my uncle,” said Budge. And assuming that the latter course would be the one adopted by Mrs. Mayton, Budge climbed into her lap and began at once to make payment. “Bless your dear little heart! exclaimed Mrs. Mayton; “you’re of the same blood, and it _is_ good, if it _is_ rather hasty.” As I rose the next morning, I found a letter under my door. Disappointed that it was not addressed in Alice’s writing, I was nevertheless glad to get a word from my sister, particularly as the letter ran as follows:— “July 1, 1875.