illy. This young gentleman was
the youngest of the family, and his mother's favorite. Why, no one knew,
except that he was so ugly. He had so many scars on his face, from falls
and fights, that somehow he produced the impression of a target. His
hair stood out like a halo of straw, and one defiant wisp reared itself
above his forehead with the grace of a cat's whisker. Mrs. Lilly could
never sleep until he was safe in her arms, and his life knew no cross
until after the accident to Katharine Kirk, who became, in her turn, the
pivot round which the family revolved. Horrible to relate, his mother
one evening, in her hurry to get back to the invalid, forgot her
youngest, and left him in the Common. There he lay all night, like a
tramp, with the stars twinkling at him, and stray dogs sniffing as they
passed him by. Yet when he was found he _did not utter one word_. He
opened his blue eyes as he was picked up, and only gave a single
plaintive cry as he was pressed to his frantic mother's bosom.

Then there was Myra Miles. She was one of the young ladies of the
family, and, as might be forgiven in a beauty, a trifle vain. She was to
receive calls on New-Year's Day, and had expected to come out in a fine
new dress. Pink tarlatan it was to be, trimmed in the French taste with
blue, with a train to thrill you to your finger-tips, which seemed to
bear the same relation to Myra Miles as the rest of a snake does to its
head. Mrs. Lilly's mamma was making it; but her time was suddenly
demanded to do something for the invalid, and the dress was thrown
aside. The consequence was that poor Myra Miles appeared in the gorgeous
pink dress with a black lace scarf instead of the waist. Still, not one
word of complaint did she utter, although her sisters Dorothy Dimple and
Martha Bonn--the favorites of Mrs. Lilly's aunt--appeared in exquisite
raiment of green and blue. There was something very beautiful about her
resignation.

[Illustration]

When the lovely Susan Mears Lilly was married, Katharine Kirk was taken
in her pretty bed to view the ceremony, and was quite a feature of the
occasion. Indeed, she did not begin to look so weak and ill as the
bridegroom, who, poor youth, was so tottering that Mrs. Lilly's aunt
cruelly suggested that his back should be propped with a hair-pin. You
may imagine how the girls laughed at this, especially Teresa Fehmer
Lilly, a wicked little bridemaid in red satin.

[Illustration]

And such attentions