u had better bring me one of your own books," says
Joyce. "I told you this would----"

"No," obstinately, "I like this. It sounds so nice and smoothly. Go on,"
says Tommy, giving her a nudge.

Joyce, with a sigh, reopens the volume, and gives herself up for lost.
To argue with Tommy is always to know fatigue, and nothing else. One
never gains anything by it.

"Well, do be quiet now, and listen," says she, protesting faintly.

"I'm listening like anything," says Tommy. And, indeed, now at last it
seems as if he were.

So silent does he grow as his aunt reads on that you might have heard a
mouse squeak. But for the low, soft tones of Joyce no smallest sound
breaks the sweet silence of the day. Miss Kavanagh is beginning to feel
distinctly flattered. If one can captivate the flitting fancies of a
child by one's eloquent rendering of charming verse, what may one not
aspire to? There must be something in her style if it can reduce a boy
of seven to such a state of ecstatic attention, considering the subject
is hardly such a one as would suit his tender years.

But Tommy was always thoughtful beyond his age. A dear, clever little
fellow! So appreciative! Far, far beyond the average! He----

The mild sweetness of the spring evening and her own thoughts are broken
in upon at this instant by the "dear, clever little fellow."

"He has just got to your waist now," says he, with an air of wild if
subdued excitement.

"He! Who! What!" shrieks Joyce, springing to her feet. A long
acquaintance with Tommy has taught her to dread the worst.

"Oh, there! Of course you've knocked him down, and I did want to see how
high he would go. I was tickling his tail to make him hurry up," says
Tommy, in an aggrieved tone. "I can't see him anywhere now," peering
about on the ground at her feet.

"Oh! What was it, Tommy? Do speak!" cries Joyce, in a frenzy of fear and
disgust.

"'Twas an earwig!" says Tommy, lifting a seraphic face to hers. "And
such a big one! He was racing up your dress most beautifully, and now
you've upset him. Poor thing--I don't believe he'll ever find his way
back to you again."

"I should hope not, indeed!" says Miss Kavanagh, hastily.

"He began at the very end of your frock," goes on Tommy, still searching
diligently on the ground, as if to find the earwig, with a view to
restoring it to its lost hunting ground; "and it wriggled up so nicely.
I don't know where he is now"--sorrowfully--"unless," with a sudd