or, and every time a little warm paw was laid on it, it left
a mark. This, however, was not explained to us. We were simply told that
if we touched that table, something would happen; and when we asked
what, the reply was, 'You'll find out what!' That was your Aunt
Timothea, girls, of course. Well, Nathaniel, being a peaceful and docile
child, accepted this dictum. Perhaps, knowing his aunt, he may have
understood it; but I did not, and I was possessed to find out what would
happen if I touched the table. Once or twice I secretly laid the tip of
a finger on it, when I was alone in the room; but nothing coming of it,
I decided that a stronger touch was needed to bring the 'something' to
pass. There used to be a little ivory mallet that belonged to the Indian
gong--ah, yes, there it is! I remember as if it were yesterday the
moment when, finding myself alone in the room, I felt that my
opportunity had come. I caught up the mallet and gave a sounding bang on
the sacred mahogany; then waited to see what would happen. Then Miss
Timothea came in, and I found out. She did it with a slipper, and I
spent most of the next week standing up."

"Our Aunt Timothea Darracott was the guardian of our childhood," Miss
Phoebe explained to Mrs. Bliss. "She was an austere, but exemplary
person. We derived great benefit from her ministrations, which were most
devoted. A well-behaved child had little to fear from Aunt Timothea."

"You must not give our friends a false impression of James's childhood,
Sister Phoebe," said Miss Vesta, looking up with the expression of a
valorous dove. "He was far from being an unruly child as a general
thing, though of course it was a pity about the table."

"Thank you, Vesta!" said Doctor Stedman. "But I am afraid I often got
Nat into mischief. Do you remember your Uncle Tree's spankstick,
Phoebe?"

"Shall we perhaps change the subject?" said Miss Phoebe, with bland
severity. "It is hardly suited to the social board. Cousin Homer, may I
give you a little more of the chicken, or will you have some oysters?"

"A--it is immaterial, I am obliged to you, Cousin Phoebe," said Mr.
Homer Hollopeter, looking up with the air of one suddenly awakened. "The
inner man has been abundantly refreshed, I thank you."

"The inner man was making a sonnet, Phoebe, and you have cruelly
interrupted him," said Doctor Stedman, not without a gleam of friendly
malice.

"Not a sonnet, James, this time," said Mr. Homer, coloring. "