All the answer he made was to repeat these words,— "God is my refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." As he stood with his eyes fixed full on hers, I saw a new light in them, as though he had said to himself, "I'm going to take courage and go ahead." If he had seen you, and you had talked to him as you did to pa and ma after dear Helen died, I should have expected to see just such a look. I suppose you know, dear, that those foreign people went away the week after you did. Ma went with Mr. Angus and brought Eugene here. He is so beautiful he almost took my breath away; but I am sorry to say he is so far from good in Ethel's meaning of the word that she considers it necessary to pray for him very often. Not a soul would he obey but Mr. Angus. I laughed so much I had to go out of the room: there was that boy with eyes flashing, defying everybody to make him stop teasing the cat, and holding her up by the tail; and there was Ethel perfectly dumb with astonishment, eyes wide open, pale cheeks, and that little quiver of her lips she has when grieved. Mr. Angus took in the situation at once and said,— "Come to me, Eugene." The boy did not stir. If I were an artist I would try to sketch Mr. Angus's eyes, as he fixed them on the defiant little fellow. There was power in them. I think Ethel would be frightened into fits if he looked at her in that way. Eugene endured it a minute and then ran, throwing his arms around the neck of the conqueror, who looked lovingly enough then. I only waited to see whether Ethel would be jealous; but the precious child went up and held up her sweet lips to kiss Eugene and show him she forgave him; then I ran to my room and had a hearty laugh all to myself. Mr. Angus told ma that Eugene was a Spanish Creole, and that it is natural for him to be hot-blooded. Ma said you wanted me to write a whole letter about Ethel,—all her funny sayings and doings. I'm sorry now I didn't begin with these, for I fear my letter will be too long. First, she is a darling. Yesterday she came running in from the garden, her hair all in a friz about her forehead, her cheeks of a brilliant color. "Oh, my!" she cried, throwing off her hat. "I'm all in a sweatperation." "A what?" repeated Gardner, trying not to laugh. "A sweatperation. Isn't that right?" she asked quickly, as he burst out laughing. "It's perspiration, dear," I explained. She was a little mortified. She has begun to learn the Commandments, and applies them to herself and her dolls on all occasions. Do you remember that habit she used to have of twirling a piece of her dress or apron when she was talking? She made a clean dress look so mussed, ma told her she mustn't do it. A few days ago I heard her talking to her favorite doll, Frances. "You have been a very naughty girl: you have broken the Commandments. Don't deny it, Frances. I saw you do it." "What has poor Frances done?" I asked. "Mussed her nice dress all up, so she can't go to the party."