Ah! Grace, and Horace, and their mother would see many such pictures of memory.
"Well, sister," said Horace, speaking quite slowly, and looking down at the grass, "what do I do that's bad?"
"Why, Horace, I shouldn't think you'd ask! Blowing gunpowder, and running off into the woods, and most killing Pincher, and going trouting down to the 'crick' with your best clothes on, and disobeying your ma, and——"
"Sayin' bad words," added Horace, "but I stopped that this morning."
"What do you mean, Horace?"
"O, I said over all the bad things I could think of; not the swearin' words, you know, but 'shucks,' and 'gallus,' and 'bully,' and 'by hokey,' and 'by George;' and it's the last time."
"O, I'm so glad, Horace!" cried Grace, clapping her hands and laughing; "and you won't blow any more powder?"
Horace shook his head.
"Nor run off again? Why, you'll be like Ally Glover, and you know I'm trying to be like little Eva."
"I don't want to be like Ally Glover," replied Horace, making a wry face; "he's lame, and besides, he's too dreadful good."