“Neither is it in mine, Sir Herbert,” she returned, drawing herself up with a lofty air.

“Such silly pride!  They should mend their ways if not their garments,” remarked Maud, in a scornful aside.

“One should think it beneath her to mend even a worn stocking,” said Rosie.

“No,” responded Eva, “and she should mend it well.”

“Your first syllable is not hard to guess, children,” said Mrs. Dinsmore; “evidently it is mend.”

With that the actors withdrew, and presently Chester Dinsmore returned alone, marching in and around the room with head erect and pompous air.  His clothes were of fine material and fashionable cut, he wore handsome jewelry, sported a gold headed cane, and strutted to and fro, gazing about him with an air of lofty disdain as of one who felt himself superior to all upon whom his glances fell.

Harold presently followed him into the room.  He was dressed as a country swain, came in with modest, diffident air, and for a while stood watching Chester curiously from the opposite side of the apartment, then crossing over, he stood before him, hat in hand, and bowing low.

“Sir,” he said respectfully, “will you be so kind as to tell me if you are anybody in particular?  I’m from the country, and shouldn’t like to meet any great man and not know it.”

“I, sir?” cried Chester, drawing himself up to his full height, and swelling with importance.  “I?  I am the greatest man in America; the greatest man of the age; I am Mr. Smith, sir, the inventor of the most delicious ices and confectionery ever eaten.”

“Thank you, sir,” returned Harold, with another low bow.  “I shall always be proud and happy to have met so great a man.”

Laughter, clapping of hands, and cries of “I!  I!” among the spectators, as the two withdrew by way of the hall.

Soon the young actors flocked in again.  A book lay on a table, quite near the edge.  With a sudden jerk Herbert threw it on the floor.

Rosie picked it up and replaced it, saying:  “Can’t you let things alone?”

“Rosie, why can’t you let the poor boy alone?” whined her cousin, Lora Howard.  “No one has ever known me to be guilty of such an exhibition of temper; it’s positively wicked.”

“Oh, you’re very good, Lora,” sniffed Zoe.  “I can’t pretend to be half so perfect.”

“Certainly I can’t,” said Eva.

“I can’t.”

“I can’t,” echoed Lulu, Max, and several others.

“Come now, children, can’t you be quiet a bit?” asked Harold.  “I can’t auction off these goods unless you are attending and ready with your bids.”

Setting down a basket he had brought in with him, he took an article from it and held it high in air.

“We have here an elegant lace veil worth perhaps a hundred dollars; it is to be sold now to the highest bidder.  Somebody give us a bid for this beautiful piece of costly lace, likely to go for a tithe of its real value.”