“A present, eh? well, they won’t lose by it. Present and advertisement mean much the same to tradespeople.” “Not when they’re as cheeky”— “There, there, Frank, don’t tease your sister! There’s no cheek in the case, though, of course, a birthday is rather more personal than Christmas; but one can’t expect nice discriminations from people of that class. It was meant as a delicate attention, and I wish Pinkie to accept it as such.” Upon which, Dr. Richards and Alice entered the room, to the great relief of Pinkie, who was able to sweep her “present” up in both hands, and carry it off to her own room. Pinkie had remained in her aunt’s care ever since her mother’s death; an arrangement which at once set her father free to look after his business, and enabled him to add considerably to his sister’s income under color of paying board for his daughter and her nurse. But for the fact that Alice’s religious views continued very unsettled, Henry Randolph’s mind would have been tolerably easy about his family; for Dr. Richards’s influence upon his wife’s faith had fully justified her brother’s opposition to the marriage, and the fortune left in his hands had been multiplied twenty-fold by “judicious management.” But that Pinkie should be tainted with materialism, rationalism, or socialism, would indeed have been a misfortune; and it had been with true paternal delight that her father observed her pretty little head to be too full of herself and her own affairs to leave room for any kind of “ism” whatsoever. Harry’s sudden death, from causes which his father had never so much as suspected, had, however, rather shaken that gentleman’s faith in his own clear-sightedness, and he had come to Micklegard for his semi-annual visit to his daughter, prepared to observe closely, and act promptly, if necessary. Before dinner was announced, Frank found an opportunity of interviewing his father, in the bay window. “About those slippers, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s a serious business. The doctor and my aunt here have cockered up that little Metzerott till he thinks himself the equal of the Tsar of Russia. Those slippers are _his_ work, and _his_ gift”— “My boy,” said Henry Randolph kindly, “do you suppose I have been on Wall Street for twenty years without ability enough to manage one sixteen-year-old girl?” “By George, sir, a sixteen-year-old girl”— “As I understand it, Frank, the fellow’s name is Louis, not George. Did you see this?” He held up a card, on which was daintily inscribed, “Many Birthday Wishes from Louis.” “Truly touching! the young upstart!” growled Frank. “Just so; and you will now, perhaps, give me credit for a little discrimination. Rose has not seen this, or it would not have been left where it was—in the toe of a slipper—for _me_ to find; therefore the thing is an advertisement, pure and simple; do you understand?” “I see!” said Frank, with a smile of profound admiration.