ature. You remember how he would trust strangers,
and if they fooled him he would say, 'It's better to be fooled than to
be suspicious'--that the confidence trick is the work of man, but the
want-of-confidence trick is the work of the devil."

"I remember something of the sort now," said Mrs. Munt, rather tartly,
for she longed to add, "It was lucky that your father married a wife
with money." But this was unkind, and she contented herself with, "Why,
he might have stolen the little Ricketts picture as well."

"Better that he had," said Helen stoutly.

"No, I agree with Aunt Juley," said Margaret. "I'd rather mistrust
people than lose my little Ricketts. There are limits."

Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, had stolen upstairs to
see whether there were scones for tea. He warmed the teapot--almost too
deftly--rejected the orange pekoe that the parlour-maid had provided,
poured in five spoonfuls of a superior blend, filled up with really
boiling water, and now called to the ladies to be quick or they would
lose the aroma.

"All right, Auntie Tibby," called Heien, while Margaret, thoughtful
again, said: "In a way, I wish we had a real boy in the house--the kind
of boy who cares for men. It would make entertaining so much easier."

"So do I," said her sister. "Tibby only cares for cultured females
singing Brahms." And when they joined him she said rather sharply: "Why
didn't you make that young man welcome, Tibby? You must do the host a
little, you know. You ought to have taken his hat and coaxed him into
stopping, instead of letting him be swamped by screaming women."

Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his forehead.

"Oh, it's no good looking superior. I mean what I say."

"Leave Tibby alone!" said Margaret, who could not bear her brother to be
scolded.

"Here's the house a regular hen-coop!" grumbled Helen.

"Oh, my dear!" protested Mrs. Munt. "How can you say such dreadful
things! The number of men you get here has always astonished me. If
there is any danger it's the other way round."

"Yes, but it's the wrong sort of men, Helen means."

"No, I don't," corrected Helen. "We get the right sort of man, but the
wrong side of him, and I say that's Tibby's fault. There ought to be a
something about the house--an--I don't know what."

"A touch of the W's, perhaps?"

Helen put out her tongue.

"Who are the W's?" asked Tibby.

"The W's are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley know ab