"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."
"Why, Horace," said his sister solemnly; "anybody can't be too good; 'tisn't possible."
"Well, then, he's just like a girl—that's what! I'm not going to be 'characteristic' any more, but I don't want to be like a girl neither. Look here, Grace, it's school time. Now don't you 'let on' to ma, or anybody, that I'm going to be better."
Grace promised, but she wondered why Horace should not wish his mother to know he was trying to be good, when it would make her so happy.
"He's afraid he'll give it up," thought she; "but I won't let him."
She sat on the piazza steps a long while after he had gone. At last a bright idea flashed across her mind, and of course she dropped her work and clapped her hands, though she was quite alone.
"I'll make a merit-book like Miss All'n's, and put down black marks for him when he's naughty."