"You correct me," returned Barbox Brothers with a blush; "and I must look so like a Brute, that at all events it would be superfluous in me to confess to _that_ infirmity. I wish you would tell me a little more about yourselves. I hardly knew how to ask it of you, for I am conscious that I have a bad stiff manner, a dull discouraging way with me, but I wish you would." "With all our hearts, sir," returned Lamps gaily for both. "And first of all, that you may know my name--" "Stay!" interposed the visitor with a slight flush. "What signifies your name? Lamps is name enough for me. I like it. It is bright and expressive. What do I want more?" "Why, to be sure, sir," returned Lamps. "I have in general no other name down at the Junction; but I thought, on account of your being here as a first-class single, in a private character, that you might--" The visitor waved the thought away with his hand, and Lamps acknowledged the mark of confidence by taking another rounder. "You are hard-worked, I take for granted?" said Barbox Brothers, when the subject of the rounder came out of it much dirtier than be went into it. Lamps was beginning, "Not particular so"--when his daughter took him up. "Oh yes, sir, he is very hard-worked. Fourteen, fifteen, eighteen hours a day. Sometimes twenty-four hours at a time." "And you," said Barbox Brothers, "what with your school, Phoebe, and what with your lace-making--" "But my school is a pleasure to me," she interrupted, opening her brown eyes wider, as if surprised to find him so obtuse. "I began it when I was but a child, because it brought me and other children into company, don't you see? _That_ was not work. I carry it on still, because it keeps children about me. _That_ is not work. I do it as love, not as work. Then my lace-pillow;" her busy hands had stopped, as if her argument required all her cheerful earnestness, but now went on again at the name; "it goes with my thoughts when I think, and it goes with my tunes when I hum any, and _that's_ not work. Why, you yourself thought it was music, you know, sir. And so it is to me." "Everything is!" cried Lamps radiantly. "Everything is music to her, sir." "My father is, at any rate," said Phoebe, exultingly pointing her thin forefinger at him. "There is more music in my father than there is in a brass band." "I say! My dear! It's very fillyillially done, you know; but you are flattering your father," he protested, sparkling.