rn of the
assurance that all the world is fixing its gaze upon us and our
actions.

Ben never dreamed that he could be taken humorously. He regarded
himself with a deep seriousness, and planned innocent little
hypocrisies with a view to their effect on the public. He was anxious
to be supposed to handle a large correspondence, and took pains to
sort his mail in public, fingering a number of letters in his leather
case with a reflective air, as if he were considering what replies
they demanded, although their worn envelopes revealed them to the most
casual observation as at least a fortnight old.

He had the sensitiveness of youth, and spent much useless effort in
the endeavor to discover what people meant by their words and deeds;
when, nine times out of ten, they meant nothing at all, but were only
striving to fill up the gaps of life with idle observations or
diversions. He himself was fond of side remarks, intended to be
satirical, but falling rather flat, if dragged out into the prosaic
light of general conversation, as sometimes happened when Miss
Standish caught a word or two and exclaimed aloud: "What was that,
Ben? Won't you give us all the benefit of that last observation?"

Ben loved his aunt; but he did not like her.

She interfered sadly with his pose as a man of the world, by relating
anecdotes of his infancy, and stating the precise number of years
which had elapsed since the occurrence.

On the occasion of one of the daily visits of Flint and Brady, they
were made aware of unmistakable signs of a domestic unpleasantness.
They were no sooner seated, than Ben picked up again the grievance
which their arrival had compelled him to drop.

"You have told that story four times already this summer, Aunt Susan,"
he remarked truculently; "and I don't think it is of great interest to
the public at any time to know that I took a bite out of each one of
the Thanksgiving pies when I was five years old."

"I have _not_ told it before, and you were _six_ when it happened,
which was fourteen years ago next November," Miss Standish answered.

Winifred Anstice, foreseeing a battle, made haste to the rescue. She
called out from her hammock:--

"When are we going to Flying Point? I think we all need change of air
for our--ahem!--nerves."

Woe to the person who undertakes to divert the lightning from meeting
thunder-clouds; unless he be well insulated, he is sure to fall victim
to his own well meant efforts.

"W