treet. Louis had
no such fancies, but flung aside his books, shoved his chum into a
chair, placed his feet on a stool, put a cigar in his mouth and lighted
it for him, pulled his whiskers, and ordered the latest instalment of
Dillon's Dark Doings in Dugout. Then the legends of life in California
began. Sometimes, after supper, a knock was heard at the door, and there
entered two little sisters, who must hear a bear-story from Arthur, and
kiss the big brother good-night; two delicate flowers on the rough stem
of life, that filled Horace Endicott with bitterness and joy when he
gathered them into his embrace; the bitterness of hate, the joy of
escape from paternity. What softness, what beauty, what fragrance in the
cherubs! _Trumps_, their big brother called them, but the world knew
them as Marguerite and Constance, and they shared the human repugnance
to an early bed.

"You ought to be glad to go to bed," Arthur said, "when you go to sleep
so fast, and dream beautiful dreams about angels."

"But I don't dream of angels," said Marguerite sadly. "Night before last
I dreamed a big black man came out of a cellar, and took baby away,"
casting a look of love at Constance in her brother's arms.

"And I dreamed," said Constance, with a queer little pucker of her
mouth, "that she was all on fire, in her dress, and----"

This was the limit of her language, for the thought of her sister on
fire overwhelmed the words at her command.

"And baby woke up," the elder continued--for she was a second mother to
Constance, and pieced out all her deficiencies and did penance for her
sins--"and she said to mother, 'throw water on Marguerite to put her
out.'"

"What sad dreams," Arthur said. "Tell Father O'Donnell about them."

"She has other things to tell him," Louis said with a grin. "I have no
doubt you could help her, Artie. She must go to confession sometime, and
she has no sins to tell. The other day when I was setting out for
confession she asked me not to tell all my sins to the priest, but to
hold back a few and give them to her for her confession. Now you have
enough to spare for that honest use, I think."

"Oh, please, dear cousin Artie," said the child, thrilling his heart
with the touch of her tender lips on his cheek.

"There's no doubt I have enough," he cried with a secret groan. "When
you are ready to go, Marguerite, I will give you all you want."

The history of Arthur's stay in California was drawn entirely from