voice was heard talking and laughing boisterously
in the hall. Then followed a long whispering, succeeded by a burst of
giggling from the housemaid, who presently ascended to Mrs. Blyth's room
alone, and entered--after an explosion of suppressed laughter behind the
door--holding out at arm's length a pair of boxing-gloves.

"If you please, sir," said the girl, addressing Valentine, and tittering
hysterically at every third word, "Master Zack's down stairs on the
landing, and he says you're to be so kind as put on these things (he's
putting another pair on hisself) and give him the pleasure of your
company for a few minutes in the painting-room."

"Come on, Blyth," cried the voice from the stairs. "I told you I should
bring the gloves, and make a fighting man of you, last time I was here,
you know. Come on! I only want to open your chest by knocking you about
a little in the painting-room before we begin to draw."

The servant still held the gloves away from her at the full stretch
of her arm, as if she feared they were yet alive with the pugilistic
energies that had been imparted to them by their last wearer. Mrs. Blyth
burst out laughing, Valentine followed her example. The housemaid began
to look bewildered, and begged to know if her master would be so kind as
to take "the things" away from her.

"Did you say, come up stairs?" continued the voice outside. "All right;
I have no objection, if Mrs. Blyth hasn't." Here Zack came in with his
boxing-gloves fitted on. "How are you, Blyth? These are the pills for
that sluggish old liver of yours that you're always complaining of. Put
'em on. Stand with your left leg forward--keep your right leg easily
bent--and fix your eye on me!"

"Hold your tongue!" cried Mr. Blyth, at last recovering breath enough to
assert his dignity as master of the new drawing-school. "Take off those
things directly! What do you mean, sir, by coming into my academy, which
is devoted to the peaceful arts, in the attitude of a prize-fighter?"

"Don't lose your temper, my dear fellow," rejoined Zack; "you will never
learn to use your fists prettily if you do. Here, Patty, the boxing
lesson's put off till to-morrow. Take the gloves up-stairs into your
master's dressing-room, and put them in the drawer where his clean
shirts are, because they must be kept nice and dry. Shake hands, Mrs.
Blyth: it does one good to see you laugh like that, you look so much the
better for it. And how is Madonna? I'm afr