“Purlash, by all means,” returned the girl, keeping her countenance, fearing to enrage Katy by a laugh; for the angry passions of the red-haired one rose more quickly than her bread. As she departed with alacrity to add a spoonful of starch and a pinch of whiting to her cake, Psyche, feeling better for her story and her smile, put on her bib and paper cap and fell to work on the deformed arm. An hour of bliss, then came a ring at the door-bell, followed by Biddy to announce callers, and add that as “the mistress was in her bed, miss must go and take care of ’em.” Whereat “miss” cast down her tools in despair, threw her cap one way, her bib another, and went in to her guests with anything but a rapturous welcome. Dinner being accomplished after much rushing up and down stairs with trays and messages for Mrs. Dean, Psyche fled again to her studio, ordering no one to approach under pain of a scolding. All went well till, going in search of something, she found her little sister sitting on the floor with her cheek against the studio door. “I didn’t mean to be naughty, Sy, but mother is asleep, and the boys all gone, so I just came to be near you; it’s so lonely everywhere,” she said, apologetically, as she lifted up the heavy head that always ached. “The boys are very thoughtless. Come in and stay with me; you are such a mouse you won’t disturb me. Wouldn’t you like to play be a model and let me draw your arm, and tell you all about the nice little bones and muscles?” asked Psyche, who had the fever very strong upon her just then. May didn’t look as if the proposed amusement overwhelmed her with delight, but meekly consented to be perched upon a high stool with one arm propped up by a dropsical plaster cherub, while Psyche drew busily, feeling that duty and pleasure were being delightfully combined. “Can’t you hold your arm still, child? It shakes so I can’t get it right,” she said, rather impatiently. “No, it will tremble ’cause it’s weak. I try hard, Sy, but there doesn’t seem to be much strongness in me lately.” “That’s better; keep it so a few minutes and I’ll be done,” cried the artist, forgetting that a few minutes may seem ages. “My arm is so thin you can see the bunches nicely,—can’t you?” “Yes, dear.” Psyche glanced up at the wasted limb, and when she drew again there was a blur before her eyes for a minute. “I wish I was as fat as this white boy; but I get thinner every day somehow, and pretty soon there won’t be any of me left but my little bones,” said the child, looking at the winged cherub with sorrowful envy. “Don’t, my darling; don’t say that,” cried Psyche, dropping her work with a sudden pang at her heart. “I’m a sinful, selfish girl to keep you here! you’re weak for want of air; come out and see the chickens, and pick dandelions, and have a good romp with the boys.” The weak arms were strong enough to clasp Psyche’s neck, and the tired face brightened beautifully as the child exclaimed, with grateful delight,—