To Ben, looking on in wonder, there came a thought fraught, as he hoped, with comfort to his brother, and pursing up his little mouth, he said: “Pho! I wouldn’t keel over like that ’cause I’d said _dry up_. ’Taint a swear. It’s a real nice word, and all the boys in the street say so.” Still Johnnie was not comforted, and in a state of terrible suspense he waited from day to day until the fatal morning when there came a telegram which he spelled out with Burt and Ben sitting on the doorstep beside him, their fat hands on his knee, and their little round dirty faces turned inquiringly towards him as he read: “SARATOGA, August 31st. “Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow, on the evening train.” There was at first no sudden outburst, but a compressed quivering of the lip, a paling of the cheek, a hopeless look in the eyes, which closed tightly as Johnnie began to realize the truth. Then, with a loud, wild cry, he threw himself upon the grass, while Ben and Burt laughed gleefully at the contortions of body which they fancied were made for their amusement. At last, however, they too understood it partially, and Ben tried to imitate his brother’s method of expressing grief by also rolling in the grass, while Burt, thinking intently for a moment, said, with a sigh of relief: “I’m plaguy glad Aunty isn’t dead too.” And this was all the consolation there was in that home at Beechwood. Dora was not dead. She was coming home and would bring sunshine with her. With a desire to have everything done in accordance with her taste, and also with a view to honor his mother’s memory, Johnnie, roused at last, and without a word of consultation with any one, sought the old colored sexton, bidding him toll the bell, and adding with a quivering lip: “It’s for my mother, and if you’ll toll it extra for an hour I’ll give you half a dollar now, and a bushel of shag-barks in the fall.”