to have a brother--a big
strong brother to lean upon, and here was one whom she would like to
gather to her.

"I didn't want any dinner, so saw no use in coming home," was the
account Oscar gave of himself that evening, when, at sundown, he came
sauntering in. But he took his revenge by doing wonders at tea-time,
sitting by the kitchen fire on a low stool, and eating his dinner, kept
hot for him. Inna was in the dining-room, presiding at her uncle's meal,
like a small queen.

"Does it hurt, dear lad?" inquired Mrs. Grant of the boy.

"No; what good is it to make a fuss about a scratch like that?" returned
he, wielding knife and fork as best he could, now one, now the other in
his left hand.

But lo! to the astonishment of all, out came Dr. Willett and Mr. Barlow
into the kitchen--who so seldom came there--followed by Inna.

"Oscar, let me see your arm," said the doctor.

Ah! well the thing was out--so much for a girl.

"I hardly know that I can, 'tis such a tight fit of a sleeve," returned
the boy, with a reproachful look at Inna.

"Well, it went in, I suppose, and it must come out," said Mr. Barlow,
coming to his side.

"Oh, don't, sir!" It was pitiful to hear the boy plead thus at the very
thought.

"Cut the sleeve," spoke the decisive doctor.

"Oh don't, sir, do that!"--it was Mrs. Grant's turn to plead now--"'tis
his best jacket."

"Yes, and his best arm, being the right; better sacrifice a jacket than
an arm"; and Mr. Barlow's scissors did the work, and laid bare Inna's
surgical dressing.

A nasty burn, but not unskilfully dressed for such young hands, they
said; then they dressed it their own way, prescribed a sling for the
arm, and a good night's rest for the boy.

"And, my boy," said the doctor impressively, "I've heard two reports of
you in the village, both bad and good; and I will let the good plead
with me against the bad this once, and prevail. But remember, one noble
deed doesn't make a life work: there's the boy's plodding on, learning,
and doing as you're bid, and a hundred other things--the very foundation
of a good useful life."

"'Tis such humdrum work," grumbled Oscar.

"And so is ours--noble art of healing, as it's sometimes called--eh, Mr.
Barlow?"

"Yes, it would be, if we weren't applying a salve to somebody's sore;
and I suppose that's what almost all work amounts to--salving somebody's
sore, easing the wheels of life somewhere," was that gentleman's reply.
"And the humd