Aunt Vi showed a collection of articles which “the knitting-woman” had kindly offered for their use; a three-legged light stand, two fiddle-backed chairs, and a very old hour-glass.

“I should call it a pair of glasses,” said Edith, as they watched the sand drip slowly from one glass into the other.

Aunt Vi said it took exactly an hour for it to drain out, and our forefathers used to tell the time of day by hour-glasses before clocks were invented.

“What are forefathers?” Lucy asked Edith.

“Oh, Adam and Eve and all those old people,” was the careless reply.

“And didn’t they have any clocks?”

“Of course not.  What do you suppose?”

There was a knock at the door.  Nate had come to find Jimmy and go with him to see the blind canary.

“We were just talking about you,” said Aunt Vi.  “Are you willing to be Katharine’s grandson in the play?”

Nate replied laughing that he would do whatever was wanted of him, and he could send home and get some knee-buckles and a cocked hat.

Aunt Vi said “Capital!” and gave Jimmy a look which said, “Everything seems to be going on famously for our new play.”

Jimmy led the way to Mrs. McQuilken’s room, his face wreathed with smiles.

“Ah, good morning; how do you all do?” said the lady, meeting the children with courteous smiles.  “I see you’ve brought your kitten, Edith.”

“Yes, ma’am; will you please look at her wounds again?”

“They are pretty well healed, dear.  I’ve never felt much concerned about Zee’s wounds.  She makes believe half of her sufferings for the sake of being petted.”

“Does she, though?  I’m so glad.”

“Yes; that ‘prize tail’ will soon be waving as proudly as ever.  But I suppose you all came to see the canary.  Mag, you naughty girl,” she added, turning to the magpie, “hide under the bed.  They didn’t come to see you.  Here, Job, you are the one that’s wanted.”

Little Job, the canary, was standing on the rug.  He came forward now to greet his visitors, putting out a foot to feel his way, like a blind man with a cane.  Then he began to sing joyously.

“Don’t you call that good music?” asked his mistress, knitting as she spoke.  “He came from Germany; there’s where you get the best singers.  Some canaries won’t sing before company and some won’t sing alone; they are fussy,—­I call it pernickitty.  Why, I had one with a voice like a flute; but I happened to buy some new wall-paper, and she didn’t like the looks of it, and after that she never would sing a note.”

“Are you in earnest?” asked Kyzie.

“Yes, it’s a fact.  But Job never was pernickitty, bless his little heart!”

She brought a tiny bell and let him take it in his claws.

“Now, I’ll go out of the room, and you all keep still and see if he’ll ring to call me back.”

She went, closing the door after her.  No one spoke.  Job moved his head from side to side, and, apparently making up his little mind that he was all alone, he shook the bell peal after peal.  Presently his mistress appeared.  “Did you think mamma had gone and left you, Job darling?  Mamma can’t stay away from her baby.”