"Horace," said Mrs. Clifford, who had been trying for some time to speak, "what do you play checkers for?"
"Ma'am? Why, to beat, of course."
"Well, do you consider it work, or play?"
"Work, or play? Why, it's a game, ma; so it's play."
"But Grace was so obliging that she wished to amuse you, my son. Does it amuse you? Doesn't it make you cross? Do you know that you have spoken a great many sharp words to your kind sister?
"Shut the board right up, my child; and remember from this time never to play checkers, or any other game, when you feel yourself growing fretful! As you sometimes say, 'It doesn't pay.'"
Horace closed the board, looking ashamed.
"That's sound advice for everybody," said aunt Madge, stroking her little nephew's hair. "If children always remembered it, they would get along more pleasantly together—I know they would."
Grace had been looking ill all the morning, and her mother now saw symptoms of a chill. With all her tender anxiety she had not known how tired her little daughter was. It was two or three weeks before the child was rested; and whenever she had a chill, which was every third day for a while, she was delirious, and kept crying out,—
"O, do see to Horace, mamma! Mr. Lazelle will forget! O, Horace, now don't let go my hand! I've got the bundles, mamma, and the milk for the baby."