We ten

by Barbara Yechton

In the mean time Mrs. Blackwood was trying, with exquisite tact, to make my father feel less uncomfortable. "It was the most absurd place to put a bowl of flowers," she asserted cheerfully, "on so slight a table, and so near the book-shelves. I've always declared that an accident would occur; now I can say, 'I told you so!' and that's such a satisfaction to a woman, you know."

She laughed merrily, but the pater still looked troubled. "It was a great piece of carelessness on my part," he repeated mournfully, for about the fifth time. "I stood looking over a volume I had taken from the shelf,—that, I am thankful to know, has not been injured" (with a hasty glance at the book still tightly clasped in his left hand),—"and becoming interested, I presume I forgot where I was, and—and leaned too heavily against the table. It gave way, and—this ruin is the result! I—I—cannot express to you how I regret the accident."

"Don't be troubled over it, dear friend, please don't," Mrs. Blackwood urged. "Nothing is broken but the bowl, and that may have been cracked before,—it seems to me that one of them was; let us rather rejoice that you were not hurt by your fall, for that would indeed have been a serious matter. Now I'm sure you want to resume looking over that 'Abbé Marité;' isn't it quaint? and perhaps among Mr. Blackwood's glasses we may be able to find a pair that would suit your eyes for the nonce. I know how perfectly lost one feels without one's 'second eyes.' Shall we make the selection? Come, Felix and Nannie,—you, too, Max,—and help us get the right focus. Oh, please don't speak of going, Mr. Rose."

Chatting pleasantly to divert my father's mind from the accident, Mrs. Blackwood led us into her husband's smoking-room, where from his collection of spectacles and eyeglasses my father made a selection which enabled him to finish the "Abbé," and soon after that to get home with some degree of comfort.

There were no more contretemps that afternoon, I am thankful to say; Max went home and dined with us. He was in fine spirits,—so glad to get home again, he said,—and made even the pater smile over a description of what he calls his "adventures in the far West." With the exception of a short visit in the study, he spent the evening with us in the schoolroom, hearing all that has happened to us since he went away, and playing violin and piano duets with Nannie and me.

I intended to have had a talk with Max about Chad, but there was no opportunity on this evening; and besides, he looked so pleased when Nora said she thought that Chad was "nice"—and she claims to be so very fastidious! I can't understand it—that I concluded I'd wait until another time to air my opinion. I noticed that Phil didn't say anything for or against Chad: all the same, I shall speak, just as soon as I can get Max alone; for, if he doesn't know it already, he ought to be told the sort of individual his ward is. As far as I'm personally concerned, I'd put up with the fellow rather than trouble Max, but I've got to think of Phil.

After Max had taken his departure, and Betty and Jack had been walked off to bed, we four older ones sat talking for a few minutes. Phil, as usual, sat on the edge of the schoolroom table. "Well, you three gay and festive creatures," he said, with a comprehensive wave of his hand toward us, "what's your true and honest opinion of the afternoon's tea-fight, politely termed 'reception'? You needn't all speak at once, you know."

"Thanks awfully for the information," laughed Nora, making him a very graceful and sweeping bow. "Well, except for the unhappy quart d'heure that papa gave us, I enjoyed the reception immensely. Oh, I'd love to be out in society," she said, with sparkling eyes, "and meet lots of people, and go to balls and receptions and all those affairs every day of my life. That's what I call living,—not this stupid, humdrum school life; and I 'll have them all, too, some day, see if I don't," she ended, with a toss of her head and a little conscious laugh. Nora knows she's pretty; that's one of the things that spoil her.

Phil eyed her severely, wrinkling up his brows. "Eleanor, my love," he remarked, with his most fatherly air, "I beg that you will bear in mind the fable of the unwise canine who lost his piece of meat by trying to catch its larger reflection in the stream, and endeavour to profit thereby. No charge made for that good advice. Now, Nancy, let's hear from you."

Nannie hesitated a little. "Why—I think I enjoyed it," she said slowly; "yes, I did."