lf a teaspoonful of wishy-washy pudding
twice a day, and all just to fill Philip Carey's pockets! Now, there was
old Clarke at Rocksand, he had some feeling for one, poor old fellow;
but this man, not the slightest compunction has he; and I am ready to
kick him out of the room when I hear that silky voice of his trying
to be gen-tee-eel, and condoling; and those boots--O! Busy Bee! those
boots! whenever he makes a step I always hear them say, 'O what a pretty
fellow I am!'"

"You seem to be very merry here, my dears," said Aunt Mary, coming in;
"but I am afraid you will tire yourself, Freddy; I heard your voice even
before I opened the door."

Fred was silent, a little ashamed, for he had sense enough not
absolutely to believe all that he had been saying, and his mother,
sitting down, began to talk to the visitor, "Well, my little Queen, we
have seen very little of you of late, but we shall be very sorry to lose
you. I suppose your mamma will have all your letters, and Henrietta must
not expect any, but we shall want very much to know how you get on with
Aunt Susan and her little dog."

"O very well, I dare say," said Beatrice, rather absently, for she was
looking at her aunt's delicate fragile form, and thinking of what her
father had been saying.

"And Queenie," continued her aunt, earnestly, "you must take great
care of your papa--make him rest, and listen to your music, and read
story-books instead of going back to his work all the evening."

"To be sure I shall, Aunt Mary, as much as I possibly can."

"But Bee," said Fred, "you don't mean that you are going to be shut up
with that horrid Lady Susan all this time? Why don't you stay here, and
let her take care of herself?"

"Mamma would not like that; and besides, to do her justice, she is
really ill, Fred," said Beatrice.

"It is too bad, now I am just getting better--if they would let me, I
mean," said Fred: "just when I could enjoy having you, and now there you
go off to that old woman. It is a downright shame."

"So it is, Fred," said Queen Bee gaily, but not coquettishly, as once
she would have answered him, "a great shame in you not to have learned
to feel for other people, now you know what it is to be ill yourself."

"That is right, Bee," said Aunt Mary, smiling; "tell him he ought to
be ashamed of having monopolized you all so long, and spoilt all the
comfort of your household. I am sure I am," added she, her eyes filling
with tears, as she affe