"Why, Horace, I have to make my own bed, and sweep and dust my room, and take care of my drawers. Only think of that; and Prudy always 'round into things, you know! Then I have to sew, O, so much! I reckon you wouldn't find it very easy being a girl."
"Poh! don't I have to feed the chickens, and bring in the eggs, and go for the cows? And when we lived home—"
Here Horace broke down; he could not think of home without remembering his father.
Grace burst into tears. The word "home" had called up a beautiful picture of her father and mother sitting on the sofa in the library, Horace and Pincher lying on the floor, the door open from the balcony, and the moon filling the room with a soft light; her father had a smile on his face, and was holding her hand.
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."