“Dee Lord, not make me sho bad, an’ besh mamma, an’ papa, an’ Budgie, and doppity, [Footnote:  Grandmother.] an’ both boggies, [Footnote:  Grandfathers.] an’ all good people in dish house, and everybody else, an’ my dolly.  A—­a—­amen!”

“Now give us the candy,” said Budge, with the usual echo from Toddie.

I hastily extracted the candy from my trunk, gave some to each boy, the recipients fairly shrieking with delight, and once more said good-night.

“Oh, you didn’t give us any pennies,” said Budge.  “Papa gives us some to put in our banks, every nights.”

“Well, I haven’t got any now—­wait until to-morrow.”

“Then we want drinks.”

“I’ll let Maggie bring you drink.”

“Want my dolly,” murmured Toddie.

I found the knotted towels, took the dirty things up gingerly and threw them upon the bed.

“Now want to shee wheels go wound,” said Toddie.

I hurried out of the room and slammed the door.  I looked at my watch—­it was half-past eight; I had spent an hour and a half with those dreadful children.  They were funny to be sure—­I found myself laughing in spite of my indignation.  Still, if they were to monopolize my time as they had already done, when was I to do my reading?  Taking Fiske’s “Cosmic Philosophy” from my trunk I descended to the back parlor, lit a cigar and a student-lamp, and began to read.  I had not fairly commenced when I heard a patter of small feet, and saw my elder nephew before me.  There was sorrowful protestation in every line of his countenance, as he exclaimed:—­

“You didn’t say ‘Good-by’ nor ‘God bless you’ nor anything.”

“Oh—­good-by.”

“Good-by.”

“God bless you.”

“God bless you.”

Budge seemed waiting for something else.  At last he said:—­

“Papa says, ‘God bless everybody.’”

“Well, God bless everybody.”

“God bless everybody,” responded Budge, and turned silently and went up-stairs.

“Bless your tormenting honest little heart,” I said to myself; “if men trusted God as you do your papa, how little business there’d be for preachers to do.”

The night was a perfect one.  The pure fresh air, the perfume of the flowers, the music of the insect choir in the trees and shrubbery—­the very season itself seemed to forbid my reading philosophy, so I laid Fiske aside, delighted myself with a few rare bits from Paul Hayne’s new volume of poems, read a few chapters of “One Summer,” and finally sauntered off to bed.  My nephews were slumbering sweetly; it seemed impossible that the pure, exquisite, angelic faces before me belonged to my tormentors of a few hours before.  As I lay on my couch I could see the dark shadow and rugged crest of the mountain; above it, the silver stars against the blue, and below it the rival lights of the fireflies against the dark background formed by the mountain itself.  No rumbling of wheels tormented