his brothers and sister, to keep them from the
workhouse. To do Midas justice, he is not mean in a good cause, and I
believe he will do the straight thing."

"But how can he make money? He is only twelve. I don't see how it is
to be done," I cried. And they laughed and said--

"It began years ago--when he shed his front teeth. Mother used to offer
us sixpence a tooth when they grew waggly, and we pulled them out
without any fuss. We each earned sixpences in our turn, and all went
well; but when Midas once began he was not content to stop, and worked
away at sound, new double teeth, until he actually got out two in one
afternoon. Then mother took alarm, and the pay was stopped. There was
an interregnum after that, and what came next? Let me see--it must have
been the sleeping sickness. Midas grew very rapidly, Miss Sackville,
and it was very difficult to get him to bed at nights, so as the mater
thought he was suffering from the want of sleep, she promised him
threepence an hour for every hour he spent in bed before nine o'clock.
After that he retired regularly every night at seven, and on half-
holidays it's a solemn fact that he was in bed at four o'clock, issuing
instructions as to the viands which were to be brought up for his
refreshment! The mater stood it for a time, but the family finances
wouldn't bear the strain, so she limited the hours and reduced the fee,
and Midas returned to his old ways. What came after that, Lorna?"

"I don't know--I forget! Of course there was Biggs--"

"Ah, yes, Miss Biggs! Miss Biggs, you must know, Miss Sackville, is an
ancient friend of the family, whom we consider it a duty to invite for a
yearly visit. She is an admirable old soul, but very deaf, very slow,
and incredibly boring. Her favourite occupation is to bring down
sheaves of letters from other maiden ladies, and insist upon reading
them aloud to the assembled family. `I have just had a letter from
Louisa Gibbings; I am sure you will like to hear it,' she will say
calmly, when the poor old parents are enjoying a quiet read after
dinner, and we youngsters are in the middle of a game. None of us have
the remotest idea who Louisa Gibbings may be, and don't want to know,
but we are bound to listen to three sheets of uninteresting information
as to how `My brother in China contemplates a visit home next year.'
`My garden is looking charming, but the peas are very poor this season.'
`You will be grieved to he