I do not know why we had so many teachers. No doubt it was partly because we were very troublesome children. But I think it was also partly owing to the fact that our father was constantly overrun by needy foreigners seeking employment. He was a philanthropist; he had been abroad, and spoke foreign languages,--that was enough! His office was besieged by “all peoples, nations, and languages,”--all, as a rule, hungry,--Greeks, Germans, Poles, Hungarians, occasionally a Frenchman or an Englishman, though these last were rare. Many of them were political exiles; sometimes they brought letters from friends in Europe, sometimes not. Our father’s heart never failed to respond to any appeal of this kind when the applicant really wanted work; for sturdy beggars he had no mercy. So it sometimes happened that, while waiting for something else to turn up, the exile of the day would be set to teaching us,--partly to give him employment, partly also by way of finding out what he knew and was fit for. In this way did Professor Feaster (this may not be the correct spelling, but it was our way, and suited him well) come to be our tutor for a time. He was a very stout man, so stout that we considered him a second Daniel Lambert. He may have been an excellent teacher, but almost my only recollection of him is that he made the most enchanting little paper houses, with green doors and blinds that opened and shut. He painted the inside of the houses in some mysterious way,--at least there were patterns on the floor, like mosaic-work,--and the only drawback to our perfect happiness on receiving one of them was that we were too big to get inside. I say this is almost my only recollection of this worthy man; but candor compels me to add that the other picture which his name conjures up is of Harry and Laura marching round the dining-room table, each shouldering a log of wood, and shouting,-- “We’ll kill old Feaster! We’ll kill old Feaster!” This was very naughty indeed; but, as I have said before, we were often naughty. One thing more I do recollect about poor Professor Feaster. Flossy was at once his delight and his terror. She was so bright, so original, so--alas! so impish. She used to climb up on his back, lean over his shoulder, and pull out his watch to see if the lesson-hour were over. To be sure, she was only eight at this time, and possibly the scenes from “Wilhelm Tell” which he loved to declaim with republican fervor may have been rather beyond her infant comprehension. One day Flossy made up her mind that the Professor should take her way about something--I quite forget what--rather than his own. She set herself deliberately against him,--three feet to six!--and declared that he should do as she said. The poor Professor looked down on this fiery pygmy with eyes that sparkled through his gold-bowed spectacles. “I haf refused,” he cried in desperation, “to opey ze Emperor of Austria, mees! Do you sink I will opey _you?_”