“I just thrashed one of the fellows because he got mad and said father was going to fail.” “O Harry, is he?” “Of course he isn’t! It’s hard times for every one, but father will pull through all right. No use to try and explain it all; girls can’t understand business; so you just tie me up, and don’t worry,” was the characteristic reply of the young man, who, being three years her junior, of course treated the weaker vessel with lordly condescension. “What a dreadful wound! I hope nothing is broken, for I haven’t studied the hand much yet, and may do mischief doing it up,” said Psyche, examining the great grimy paw with tender solicitude. “Much good your biceps, and deltoids, and things do you, if you can’t right up a little cut like that,” squeaked the ungrateful hero. “I’m not going to be a surgeon, thank heaven; I intend to make perfect hands and arms, not mend damaged ones,” retorted Psyche, in a dignified tone, somewhat marred by a great piece of court-plaster on her tongue. “I should say a surgeon could improve _that_ perfect thing, if he didn’t die a-laughing before he began,” growled Harry, pointing with a scornful grin at a clay arm humpy with muscles, all carefully developed in the wrong places. “Don’t sneer Hal, for you don’t know anything about it. Wait a few years and see if you’re not proud of me.” “Sculp away and do something, then I’ll hurrah for your mud-pies like a good one;” with which cheering promise the youth departed, having effectually disturbed his sister’s peaceful mood. Anxious thoughts of her father rendered “biceps, deltoids, and things” uninteresting, and hoping to compose her mind, she took up The Old Painters and went on with the story of Claude Lorraine. She had just reached the tender scene where,— “Calista gazed with enthusiasm, while she looked like a being of heaven rather than earth. ‘My friend,’ she cried, ‘I read in thy picture thy immortality!’ As she spoke, her head sunk upon his bosom, and it was several moments before Claude perceived that he supported a lifeless form.” “How sweet!” said Psyche, with a romantic sigh. “Faith, and swate it is, thin!” echoed Katy, whose red head had just appeared round the half opened door. “It’s gingy-bread I’m making the day, miss, and will I be puttin’ purlash or sallyrathis into it, if ye plase?”