“Th--those--bit--bit--it.” The word was unfortunately lost in a sob. It was followed by red faces and two simultaneous yells of remonstrance and objurgation. “I must ask you to be silent a minute,” said Miss Fountain, quietly. “Reginald, what do you mean by--by--nagging?” Reginald explained. “By nagging he meant--why--nagging.” “Well, then, what had they been doing to him?” No; poor Reginald was not analytical, dialectical and critical, like certain pedanticules who figure in story as children. He was a terrible infant, not a horrible one. “They won't fight and they won't make it up, and they keep nagging,” was all could be got out of him. “Come with me, dear,” said Lucy, gravely. “Yes,” assented the tiger, softly, and went out awestruck, holding her hand, and paddling three steps to each of her serpentine glides. Seated in her own room, tiger at knee, she tried topics of admonition. During these his eyes wandered about the room in search of matter more amusing, so she was obliged to bring up her reserve. “And no young lady will ever marry you.” “I don't want them to, cousin; I wouldn't let them; you will marry me, because you promised.” “Did I?” “Why, you know you did--upon your honor; and no lady or gentleman ever breaks their word when they say that; you told me so yourself,” added he of the inconvenient memory. “Ah! but there is another rule that I forgot to tell you.” “What is that?” “That no lady ever marries a gentleman who has a violent temper.” “Oh, don't they?” “No; they would be afraid. If you had a wife, and took up the poker, she would faint away, and die--perhaps!” “Oh, dear!” “I should.” “But, cousin, you would not _want_ the poker taken to you; you never nag.” “Perhaps that is because we are not married yet.” “What, then, when we are, shall you turn like the others?” “Impossible to say.” “Well, then” (after a moment's hesitation), “I'll marry you all the same.” “No! you forget; I shall be afraid until your temper mends.” “I'll mend it. It is mended now. See how good I am now,” added he, with self-admiration and a shade of surprise. “I don't call this mending it, for I am not the one that offended you; mending it is promising me never, never to call naughty names again. How would you like to be called a dog?” “I'd kill 'em.” “There, you see--then how can you expect poor nurse to like it?” “You don't understand, cousin--Tom said to George the groom that Mrs. Jones was an--old--stingy--b--” “I don't want to hear anything about Tom.” “He is such a clever fellow, cousin. So I think, if Jones is an old one, those two that keep nagging me must be young ones. What do you think yourself?” asked Reginald, appealing suddenly to her candor. “And no doubt it was Tom that taught you this other vulgar word 'nagging,'” was the evasive reply. “No, that was mamma.” Lucy colored, wheeled quickly, and demanded severely of the terrible infant: “Who is this Tom?”