ne had ensconced herself in
her favorite window to catch the sun's last smile before he fell asleep.
In the room across the hall Mr. Everidge reclined in his luxurious
arm-chair and leisurely turned the pages of the last "North American
Review." It was Saturday evening.

"Why, Horace, can this be possible?" Mrs. Everidge entered the room
quickly and stood before her husband. Neither of them noticed Evadne.

"My dear, many things are possible in this terrestrial sphere. What
particular possibility do you refer to?"

"That you have discharged Reuben?" The sweet voice trembled. Mr.
Everidge's tones kept their usual complacent calm.

"That possibility, my dear, has taken definite form in fact."

"But, Horace, the boy is heart-broken."

"Time is a mighty healer, my love. He will recover his mental equipoise
in due course."

"But you might have given him a month's warning. Where is the poor boy
to find another place? It is cruel to turn him off like this!"

"Really, my dear Marthe, I do not feel myself competent to solve all the
problems of the labor question," said Mr. Everidge carelessly. "Reuben
must take his chances in common with the rest of his class."

"But, Horace, I cannot imagine what your reason for this can be! Where
will you find so good a boy?"

"I am not aware that Socrates thought it necessary to acquaint the
worthy Xantippe with the reasons for his conduct," remarked Mr. Everidge
suavely. "The feminine mind is too much disposed to jump to hasty
conclusions to prove of any assistance in deciding matters of
importance. The masculine brain, on the contrary, takes time for calm
deliberation and weighs the pros and cons in the scale of a well
balanced judgment before arriving at any definite decision. But my
reason in this case will soon become apparent to you. I do not intend to
keep a boy at all."

"But who will take care of Atalanta? Are you going to forsake your
cherished books for a curry-comb?"

"Really, Marthe!" exclaimed her husband in an aggrieved tone, "it is
incomprehensible that you should have such a total disregard for the
delicacy of my constitution,--especially when you know that the very
odor of the stable is abhorrent to my olfactory senses. Atalanta has
quarters provided for her at the Vernon Livery, and one of the grooms
has orders to bring the carriage to the door at two o'clock every
afternoon."

"But that will make it very awkward, Horace. I so often have to use the
carriage