“Mother, mother,—­can’t I have that set of cards?  We want it in our play-room—­Phemie and me are going to build a house.”

“I do not like to give you permission,” replied mamma, looking considerably worried, “for George does not wish you to have them.”

“Oh, but George is out, mother—­out for all day,” rejoined the precocious canvasser, “and will never know anything about it.”

“But perhaps he might come home before you had done with them, and George is so terribly passionate, and hates to have his things touched, that he will raise the whole house.”

“Poor boy!” observed my grandmother dryly, “What a misfortune to be so passionate!  A deep-seated, and, I fear, incurable one, Amy; for of course you have used your utmost endeavors, both by precept and example, to render him otherwise.”

I almost pitied my mother’s feelings; for well did I remember the cried-for toy placed within his hands, to stop the constant succession of screams sent forth by a pair of lungs whose strength seemed inexhaustible—­the comfort and convenience of the whole family disregarded, not because he was the best, but the worst child—­and often the destruction of some highly-prized trinket or gem of art, because he was “passionate;” the result of which was, that my poor brother George became one of the most selfish, exacting, intolerable boys that ever lived.

There was no reply, save a troubled look; and the little tormentor continued in a fretful tone; “We’ll put ’em all away before he gets in, and never tell him a word of it—­can’t we have them, mother?”

My mother glanced towards her mentor, but the look which she met impelled her to pursue a course so different from her usual one, that I listened in surprise:  “No, Caroline, you can not have them—­now leave the room, and let me hear no more about it.”

“I want them,” said the child in a sullen tone, while she turned to that invariable resource of refactory children who happen to be near a door; namely, turning the knob, and clicking the lock back and forth, and swinging on it at intervals.

This performance is extremely trying to a person of restless, nervous temperament, and my grandmother, setting up her spectacles, exclaimed commandingly:  “Caroline, how dare you stand pouting there?  Did you not hear your mother, naughty girl?  Leave the room—­this instant?”

The child stood a moment almost transfixed with surprise; but as she saw my grandmother preparing to advance upon her—­her ample skirts and portly person somewhat resembling a ship under full sail—­she made rather an abrupt retreat; discomposing the nerves of a small nursery-maid, whom she encountered in the passage, to such a degree that, as the girl expressed it, “she was took all of a sudden.”