When Horace came home that night, he was charmed with the plan, for he was really in earnest. His kind sister made the book very neatly, and sewed it into a cover of glossy blue paper. She thought they would try it four weeks; so she had put in twenty-eight pages, each page standing for one day.
"Now," said she, "when you say one bad word I'll put down 'one B.W.' for short; but when you say two bad words, 'twill be 'two B.W.,' you know. When you blow gunpowder, that'll be 'B.G.'—no, 'B.G.P.,' for gunpowder is two words."
"And when I run off, 'twill be 'R.O.'"
"Or 'R.A.,'" said Grace, "for 'ran away.'
"And 'T.' for 'troutin','" said Horace, who was getting very much interested; "and—and—'P.A.L.' for 'plaguing Aunt Louise,' and 'C.' for 'characteristic,' and 'L.T.' for 'losing things.'"
"O, dear, dear, Horace, the book won't begin to hold it! We mustn't put down those little things."
"But, Grace, you know I shan't do 'em any more."
Grace shook her head and sighed. "We won't put down all those little things," repeated she; "we'll have 'D.' for 'disobedience,' and 'B.W.,' and—O! one thing I forgot—'F.' for 'falsehood.'"
"Well, you won't get any F's out of me, by hokey," said Horace, snapping his fingers.
"Why, there it is, 'one B.W.' so quick!" cried Grace, holding up both hands and laughing.