The mention of dolls brings us to the sister. She was like her mother-- little, soft, fair, and sweet-voiced; just as unlike her brothers in appearance as possible--except that she had their bright blue, blazing eyes. Her age was eight years. It was, truly, a sight to behold this family sit down to supper of an evening. The blacksmith would come in and seize little Jim in his brawny arms, and toss him up to the very beams of the ceiling, after which he would take little Molly on his knee, and fondle her, while "Old Moll," as he sometimes called his wife, spread the cloth and loaded the table with good things. A cat, a kitten, and a terrier, lived together in that smith's cottage on friendly terms. They romped with each other, and with the five boys, so that the noise used sometimes to be tremendous; but it was not an unpleasant noise, because there were no sounds of discontent or quarrelling in it. You see, the blacksmith and his wife trained that family well. It is wonderful what an amount of noise one can stand when it is good-humoured noise. Well, this blacksmith had a favourite maxim, which he was fond of impressing on his children. It was this--"Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, doing it as if to the Lord, and not to men." We need hardly say that he found something like this maxim in the Bible--a grand channel through which wisdom flows to man. Of course he had some trouble in teaching his little ones, just as other fathers have. One evening, when speaking about this favourite maxim, he was interrupted by a most awful yell under the table. "Why, what ever is the matter with the cat?" said the blacksmith in surprise. "It's on'y me, fadder," said little Jim; "I found hims tail, and I pulled it _wid all my might_!" "Ah, Jim!" said Mrs Thorogood, laughing, as she placed a huge plate of crumpets on the table, "it's only when a thing is _right_ we are to do it with our _might_. Pulling the cat's tail is wrong. "`When a thing's wrong, Let it alone. When a thing's right, Do it with might.' "Come now, supper's ready." "Capital poetry, Old Moll," shouted the blacksmith, as he drew in his chair, "but not quite so good as the supper. Now, then--silence." A blessing was asked with clasped hands and shut eyes. Then there was a sudden opening of the eyes and a tendency in little hands to grasp at the crumpets, buttered-toast, bacon, and beans, but good training told. Self-restraint was obvious in every trembling fist and glancing eye. Only curly-haired little Jim found the smell too much for him. He was about to risk reputation and everything, when a glance from his father quelled the rebellious spirit. "Come, Jim, fair-play. Let it go right round, like the sun,--beginning wi' mother."