One morning, when Marcus Wilkeson returned home from a ramble, he found his half-sister Philomela violently dusting the furniture and books of the snug little back parlor. The air was full of dancing motes, which looked large and suffocating in the sunshine. Marcus had politely requested his sister, fifty times at least, _not_ to molest that sanctuary of meditation oftener than once a fortnight. To which she always replied: "I suppose you great lazy fellows would like to have the cobwebs grow on you. But you sha'n't, while I am in the house." Then, with a few dexterous flourishes of her cloth, she would start the dust up in a cloud. On this morning, Marcus Wilkeson, being in the most tolerant of moods, merely said "Whew!" and took a seat by his favorite window, the lower sash of which he threw wide open, with the vain hope that some of the dust would blow out. Miss Philomela smiled at this act so as to be seen by him. But he did not appear to notice it. Then she whisked her cloth under his very nose, as if to challenge objections. After this aggravation had been repeated three or four times, Marcus felt compelled to make a mild protest. "Great deal of dust, sister," he said, stating what he presumed would not be contradicted. "Is there?" replied Miss Philomela, exulting in the success of her stratagem. "_I_ didn't notice it; nor would you, if you had some business to look after, like other people, instead of stopping in the house all day." Marcus had heard that argument and triumphantly put it down so often, that he did not think it worth another word. Consequently he said nothing. This obstinate silence galled Miss Philomela; and, after waiting full three minutes to see if Marcus would not answer, and meanwhile dusting prodigiously in his neighborhood, she said: "Well, it's some gratification to know that you do not have the hardihood to defend yourself. You are well aware that nothing can justify a healthy, middle-aged man--I may say, a young one--in retiring from active life and society, and becoming a great lazy mope." "I'm really too lazy to discuss it now," replied Marcus, smiling, and filling his meerschaum from the tobacco pouch which hung conveniently at the window's side. Philomela regarded him for a moment with an expression of pity and horror. Then she heaved a sigh, and muttered something about misapplied talents. "You had better say, 'Misapplied brooms and dusters,'" retorted her half-brother. "I should be perfectly happy now, but for this confounded dust." "Laugh away. I know you despise my sisterly advice. But you can never say that I have not done my duty--" "To the furniture, most assuredly," interrupted Marcus. Miss Philomela Wilkeson heaved another sigh in the best style of martyrdom, and precipitately left the room, followed by her brother's cheerful, rattling laugh. "A good old girl enough," said Marcus to himself, "but for her well-meaning and strictly conscientious habit of making people miserable."