thing to stand and give an account of themselves.
Miss Roxy herself belonged to this class, but sometimes found herself so
stoutly overhauled by the guns of Mrs. Kittridge's battery, that she
could only stand modestly on the defensive.

One of Mrs. Kittridge's favorite hobbies was education, or, as she
phrased it, the "fetchin' up" of children, which she held should be
performed to the letter of the old stiff rule. In this manner she had
already trained up six sons, who were all following their fortunes upon
the seas, and, on this account, she had no small conceit of her
abilities; and when she thought she discerned a lamb being left to frisk
heedlessly out of bounds, her zeal was stirred to bring it under proper
sheepfold regulations.

"Come, Sally, it's eight o'clock," said the good woman.

Sally's dark brows lowered over her large, black eyes, and she gave an
appealing look to her father.

"Law, mother, let the child sit up a quarter of an hour later, jist for
once."

"Cap'n Kittridge, if I was to hear to you, there'd never be no rule in
this house. Sally, you go 'long this minute, and be sure you put your
knittin' away in its place."

The Captain gave a humorous nod of submissive good-nature to his
daughter as she went out. In fact, putting Sally to bed was taking away
his plaything, and leaving him nothing to do but study faces in the
coals, or watch the fleeting sparks which chased each other in flocks
up the sooty back of the chimney.

It was Saturday night, and the morrow was Sunday,--never a very pleasant
prospect to the poor Captain, who, having, unfortunately, no spiritual
tastes, found it very difficult to get through the day in compliance
with his wife's views of propriety, for he, alas! soared no higher in
his aims.

"I b'lieve, on the hull, Polly, I'll go to bed, too," said he, suddenly
starting up.

"Well, father, your clean shirt is in the right-hand corner of the upper
drawer, and your Sunday clothes on the back of the chair by the bed."

The fact was that the Captain promised himself the pleasure of a long
conversation with Sally, who nestled in the trundle-bed under the
paternal couch, to whom he could relate long, many-colored yarns,
without the danger of interruption from her mother's sharp,
truth-seeking voice.

A moralist might, perhaps, be puzzled exactly what account to make of
the Captain's disposition to romancing and embroidery. In all real,
matter-of-fact transactions, as bet