"Yes, Miss Inna, give and take; it's that as smooths life's rough places. Master Oscar has nothing to give his uncle for all he's doing for him, but his will--letting go that foolish nonsense about the sea. He ought to give up the sea and take to the farm--that would be his giving and taking; and his uncle would give him the farm, and take his--his obedience to his wishes, as a sort of harvest of love after all the years of sowing." "Sowing?" said Inna. "Yes, the doctor has sown a deal of trouble, thought, and anxiety over this young brother of his, at last lost at sea--that's Oscar's father, you know. I think, in his quiet way, he's set his heart on the boy making him some return, in the way of love and gratitude; and besides, he says, putting him into the farm is the best thing he can do for him, leaving out the love, obedience, and gratitude, and----" But Inna was asleep. Well, the next evening's tea-drinking, over which Inna presided, was a sort of state tea-drinking at which Dr. Willett sat down, a thing he had scarcely ever been known to do before. But then, Oscar was to tell his adventures during tea; a poor, thin, hollow-eyed narrator was he, who had been down well-nigh to death's door. The tea-table was gay with spring flowers, and through the open window came a chorus of sweet sounds, the bleating of lambs from the meadows, the lowing of the cows being driven home to their milking, the song of birds, the hum of insects--bees and gnats--the one toiling, the others dancing in idleness: types and shadows of the human race, as Mr. Barlow remarked. To which Jenny added, "Yes; and of boys and girls--the girls working, the boys idle." But to this there was no time to make reply, for Inna had supplied them all with tea, and Oscar had cleared his throat like a story-teller in a book, and was waiting to begin. "Well, you know when I started, and you shouted, and I shouted back," said he. "Yes, we know--hurry up!" spoke Jenny, like an unmannerly boy. "I went on first-rate for a time, then I came to a full stop, for I was at the Ugly Leap; and before I knew it I was over." "Not much of a full stop; I should say a note of exclamation was dashed in there," remarked Mr. Barlow. "I don't think I uttered a sound; I think I was too horrified--that is as girlish, I know, as if I'd screamed!" "Oh! Oscar, you did scream: 'twas that which told us something was wrong," put in the interrupting damsel Jenny. "And no wonder. I'm not sure I shouldn't have screamed myself; and boys are but mortal, the same as doctors," remarked Mr. Barlow. "But not nearly so wise," interrupted Jenny again. "Nor yet so talkative as young ladies; and if present company will excuse me, I should like some of them to be quiet," said Oscar. "Well, my boy, after the scream----" prompted Mr. Barlow.