"A story? Yes, I'll tell you one about a little boy who had a kind old--ahem!--grandma. She was rich, and hadn't made up her mind who she'd leave her money to. She was fond of the boy,--a deal fonder than he deserved,--for he was as mischievous a monkey as any that ever lived in a tree, with a curly tail. He put pepper in her snuff-box,"--here Toady turned scarlett,--"he cut up her bestt frisette to make a mane for his rocking-horse,"--Toady opened his mouth impulsively, but shut it again without betraying himself--"he repeated rude things to her, and called her 'an old aggrewater,'"--here Toady wriggled in his chair, and gave a little gasp. "If you are tired I won't go on," observed Aunt Kipp, mildly. "I'm not tired, 'm; it's a very interesting story," replied Toady, with a gravity that nearly upset the old lady. "Well, in spite of all this, that kind, good, forgiving grandma left that bad boy twenty thousand dollars when she died. What do you think of that?" asked Aunt Kipp, pausing suddenly with her sharp eye on him. "I--I think she was a regular dear," cried Toady, holding on to the chair with both hands, as if that climax rather took him off his legs. "And what did the boy do about it?" continued Aunt Kipp, curiously. "He bought a velocipede, and gave his sister half, and paid his mother's rent, and put a splendid marble cherakin over the old lady, and had a jolly good time, and--" "What in the world is a cherakin?" laughed Aunt Kipp, as Toady paused for breath. "Why, don't you know? It's a angel crying, or pointing up, or flapping his wings. They have them over graves; and I'll give you the biggest one I can find when you die. But I'm not in a _very_ great hurry to have you." "Thankee, dear; I'm in no hurry, myself. But, Toady, the boy did wrong in giving his sister half; she didn't deserve _any_; and the grandma left word she wasn't to have a penny of it." "Really?" cried the boy, with a troubled face. "Yes, really. If he gave her any he lost it all; the old lady said so. Now what do you think?" asked Aunt Kipp, who found it impossible to pardon Polly,--perhaps because she was young, and pretty, and much beloved. Toady's eyes kindled, and his red cheeks grew redder still, as he cried out defiantly,-- "I think she was a selfish pig,--don't you?" "No, I don't, sir; and I'm sure that little boy wasn't such a fool as to lose the money. He minded his grandma's wishes, and kept it all." "No, he didn't," roared Toady, tumbling off his chair in great excitement. "He just threw it out a winder, and smashed the old cherakin all to bits." Aunt Kipp dropped her work with a shrill squeak, for she thought the boy was dangerous, as he stood before her, sparring away at nothing as the only vent for his indignation.