well, we 'll ask
for quiet ones," he finished, with an air that indicated an entirely
satisfactory solution of the problem.

Life at "Meadowbrook" was a thing of peaceful mornings and long, drowsy
afternoons; a thing of spotless order and methodical routine. In a
long, childless marriage Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth's days had come to be
ordered with a precision that admitted of no frivolous deviations: and
noise and confusion in the household machinery were the unforgivable
offenses. It was into this placid existence that Mr. and Mrs.
Wentworth proposed to introduce two children from the orphan asylum.

Before the week was out a note was sent to the matron of the
institution, and the prospective host and hostess were making their
plans with unwonted excitement.

"We 'll rise at six and breakfast at seven," began Mrs. Wentworth.

"And they must be in bed by eight o'clock," supplemented her husband.

"I did n't say whether to send boys or girls, and I forgot to say
anything about their being quiet; but if they 're boys, you can teach
them gardening, James, and if they 're girls, they can sew with me a
good deal."

"Hm-m--yes; I really don't know what we shall do to entertain them.
Perhaps they might like to read," suggested Mr. Wentworth, looking with
some doubt at his big bookcases filled with heavy, calf-bound volumes.

"Of course; and they can walk in the garden and sit on the piazza,"
murmured Mrs. Wentworth happily.

In the orphan asylum that same evening there was even greater
excitement. Mrs. Wentworth's handwriting was not of the clearest, and
her request for "two" children had been read as "ten"; and since the
asylum--which was only a small branch of a much larger institution--had
recently been depleted until it contained but five children, the matron
was sorely perplexed to know just how to fill so generous an order. It
ended in her writing an apologetic note to Mrs. Wentworth and
dispatching it the next morning by the hand of the eldest girl, Tilly,
who was placed at the head of four other jubilant children, brushed,
scrubbed, and admonished into a state of immaculate primness.

At half-past nine o'clock the driver of the big carry-all set five
squirming children on to their feet before the front door at
"Meadowbrook," and rang the bell.

"Here you are," he called gayly, as Hannah opened the door. "I've
washed my hands of 'em--now they're yours!" And he drove briskly out
of the yard.

Hannah neit