generally the bearer of the loaf, or cake, eh,
Cleena?" asked Hallam, who was lingering in the kitchen, gathering what
warmth he could from the stove there. The coals provided in the autumn
were long ago consumed, and out of the scanty supply she had been able
to procure since then, Cleena wasted little below stairs. In the
master's studio above a fire was always burning, and if, as he sometimes
did, he asked whence the supply, the faithful servant put his inquiry
aside with some evasive remark.

He had now work at hand which engrossed him entirely, and to which heat
and physical comfort were a necessity. He was painting a life-sized
portrait of his wife, and not one of the household could do aught but
wish him God-speed on so precious a labor.

Meanwhile, Hallam lay so silent upon the settle beside the stove that
neither of them, Cleena nor Fayette, noticed him.

"Here you, William, Beatrice, Belinda, come by! Set yourselves down in
the corner, yon. Here's a fine bag o' scraps for you two little maids.
Pick 'em over that neat your mother'll be proud; and, William, take out
these things from Miss Amy's box till you puts them back as straight as
straight. Sure, it's long since herself's had the time, an' he's a smart
little gossoon, so he is."

The little girls emptied the bag of pieces on the floor, and sorting
them into piles began to roll them into tidy bundles. Along with
improving Fayette, Cleena had early set out upon the same lines with the
small Joneses. Even William Gladstone, the mite, was already learning to
distinguish between soiled hands and clean, and to enjoy the latter.

So now, while she talked, Cleena set the child to take out and replace
with exactness the few treasured letters and cards, or papers, which
were Amy's own, and kept in her big japanned box.

Once, idly, Cleena observed the child lingering over a square packet,
like an old-time letter, sealed with red wax. It was this bit of color
which the little one fancied, and she smiled to see his delight in it.

"The blessed baby! Sure, he's the makings of a fine man in him, so he
has. Take a look, Fayetty, if yerself would copy yon."

"You'll let that youngster play with your things once too often. He's a
_hider_, Lionel Percival says so."

"Humph! An' what that silly heeram-skeeram says means naught. Now, hear
me, me gineral. This ends it. You goes to work, or you goes to play.
Which is it?"

"I--I won't."

"Which is it?" repeated Cle