id only kind words of you--at least, what she thought were
kind."

"Oh, ay! everybody is kind after that fashion, I suppose. Now, about
holding your tongue?"

"Do you mean I mustn't say anything about your burnt arm?"

"Yes."

"I won't, if I can help it."

"We know you can help it. Good night."

He let her go out, and she stole down to the kitchen, there to tell Mrs.
Grant, when she came in from the dining-room, that Oscar was in, and
gone to bed, without saying anything of what she had done.

"I say, come up here, and help me on with my jacket," called Oscar, the
next morning, from above stairs, to Inna below in the hall.

Up she ran, like a willing little friend in need, to the needy boy.

"This is my best jacket," said he, when the injured arm was safe in its
sleeve. "Now you hear what Mother Peggy will say when she sees me
adorned with it."

"Yes," returned Inna; "has it pained you to-night?"

"Well, yes; I never slept a wink till 'twas almost get-up time."

She looked at him; his face was worn, his eyes wild.

"Tell Uncle Jonathan, and let him see to it, or let me tell him."

"At your peril, if you do!" said he, like a very despot. "And besides,
'tis more like Billy Barlow's job than the doctor's."

"Let me tell Mr. Barlow, then," she pleaded.

"I tell you, you shan't. That's the worst of having a girl in a
mess--she won't hold her tongue."

"Yes, I will, if they don't ask me about it," said the child.

To which Oscar returned "Hum!" and ran downstairs, challenging her to
catch him. Well-nigh over Mrs. Grant he went, she carrying in the urn,
Inna like a dancing tom-tit behind.

"Have a care, Master Oscar," said the housekeeper, coming to a full
stop to let him pass. "And what's that best jacket on for?"

"Because the one I wore yesterday is in holes," was the moody reply; and
he slipped away into the dining-room, to end the discussion.

There must be silence there, for the doctor was in his place at the
table, buried in his papers, waiting for someone to minister to his
wants.

"I can't," whispered Oscar, after a vain attempt to wield the
carving-knife; and he and Inna changed places like two shadows. Well,
trying generally brings some sort of success: it did to Inna. Carved
very creditably were the slices of meat she laid on her uncle's plate;
and, fearing more of a deluge than usual at the urn, she took her seat
at that, and presided over the meal with dainty dignity.

"I hope you're