“Well, sir,” pleaded Lamps, in behalf of the long-deceased. “You see, Phœbe and me, we have talked that over too. And Lord bless us! Such a number on us has our infirmities, what with fits, and what with misfits, of one sort and another, that if we confessed to ’em all before we got married, most of us might never get married.” “Might not that be for the better?” “Not in this case, sir,” said Phœbe, giving her hand to her father. “No, not in this case, sir,” said her father, patting it between his own. “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 know 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 he went into it. Lamps was beginning, “Not particular so”—when his daughter took him up. “O 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, Phœbe, 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 Phœbe, 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.