een in the
shop; if in the shop, then I should have been in the barn--unless she
had company; and then she was all sweetness, all gentleness; then she
was all merciful and compassionate.

"What are you doing out there?" snarled she. "I've been out in the
street and into the store after you, and you always are just where no
one can find you when you are wanted."

I didn't say anything; it wasn't any use.

"Take that bucket of swill out, and give it to the pigs; and next time
don't leave it till it is running over full," she continued, in the same
amiable, sweet-tempered tones. "It's strange you can't do anything till
you are told to do it. Don't you know that swill-pail wants emptying,
without being told of it?"

"I always feed the pigs three times a day whether the pail wants
emptying or not," I ventured to reply, in defence of the pigs rather
than myself.

"There, carry it along, and don't spill it."

The pail was filled even with the brim, and it was simply impossible to
avoid spilling it.

"What a careless fellow you are!" screamed she, her notes on the second
added line above the treble staff. "You are spilling it all over the
floor! I wish you could learn to do anything like folks!"

I wished I could too; but I did not venture to suggest that if she had
not filled the pail so full, and even run it over herself before I
touched it, I might have carried it "like folks." It was no use; she
always got the better of me in an argument. I fed the pigs, as I always
did, before I went after the mail, and carried the pail back to the
shed. The door of the kitchen was open, and Mrs. Fishley was returning
to her work as I entered.

"You careless child! What do you mean by letting those cakes burn?" I
heard her cry to poor Flora, who was sitting in her arm-chair by the
cooking-stove, whereon Mrs. Fishley was baking flapjacks for supper.

"I didn't know--"

"You didn't know, you careless hussy!" exclaimed Mrs. Fishley, seizing
her by the arm, and lifting her roughly out of her chair.

"O, don't!" groaned poor Flora.

I could not stand that. I rushed into the kitchen, seized poor Flora's
tyrant by the shoulders, and hurled her half way across the room. My
blood was up to the boiling point.

CHAPTER II.

FLORA BRADFORD.

I had never seen Mrs. Fishley use violence upon my poor sister before,
though I afterwards learned that this was not the first time. I was a
solid-built, stout fellow of sixteen; and