oom. Tables, on
which rested books and magazines, with here and there a vase of flowers
fresh cut from the garden, showed that the inmates of the house were
people of intelligence and refinement.

Mansfield Rushton, the boys' father, was one of the most prominent
citizens of Oldtown. He was a broker, with offices in a neighboring
city, to which he commuted. His absorption in his business and his
interest in large affairs left him less time and leisure than he would
have liked to devote to his family. He was jovial and easy-going, and
very proud of his two boys, to whom he was, in fact, perhaps too
indulgent. "Boys will be boys," was his motto, and many an interview,
especially with Teddy, that ought, perhaps, to have ended in punishment,
was closed only with the more or less stern injunction "not to do it
again."

His wife, Agnes, was a sweet, gracious woman, who, while she added
greatly to the charm and happiness of the household, did not contribute
very much to its discipline. She could be firm on occasion, and was not
as blind as the father to what faults the boys possessed. Although each
one of them was as dear to her as the apple of her eye, she by no means
adopted the theory that they could do no wrong. Like most mothers,
however, she was inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt, and it
was not hard to persuade her that they were "more sinned against than
sinning."

The Rushton system of household management, with love, rather than fear,
the ruling factor, was not without its critics. The boys' uncle, Aaron,
some years older than his brother Mansfield, and wholly different in
disposition, had been especially exasperated at it. On his occasional
visits to Oldtown he never tired of harping on his favorite proverb of
"spare the rod and spoil the child," and his predictions of Teddy's
future were colored with dark forebodings.

To be sure, he had never gone so far as to prophesy that Teddy's
mischief would ever come near killing any one. And yet, that was
precisely what had happened.

And as Aaron Rushton toiled up the hill the discomfort he felt from his
wet clothes was almost forgotten in the glow of satisfaction that at
last he had proved his theory. He would show Mansfield and Agnes that
even if he was a bachelor--as they had at times slyly reminded him--he
knew more about bringing up boys than they did.

The unsuspecting parents were sitting on the veranda, waiting for the
boys to come in to supper.