youth, in infantile
earnestness.

"I'll come back presently, brother," said Mary, tripping across the
room and searching a trunk.

"Make haste--but I'm not afraid--I'll frighten all the Indians away."
Saying this, he rattled the drum as rapidly as possible.

"See what I've got, brother," said Mary, returning with a juvenile
book, and sitting down close at his side. He thrust the drum away,
and, laughing heartily, placed his arm round his sister and said:
"Mother's got _my_ book; but you'll let me look at yours, won't you,
sister?"

"Yes that I will, brother--see, this is the little old woman, and
there's her dog--"

"Yes, and there's the peddler," cried the youth, pointing at the
picture.

"Now can't you read it, brother?"

"To be sure I can--let me read:

"'There was a little woman
As I have heard tell,
She went to market
Her eggs for to sell.'

"See! there she goes, with a basket on her arm and a cane in her hand."

"Yes, and here she is again on this side, fast asleep, and her basket
of eggs sitting by her," said Mary; "now let me read the next:

"'She went to market,
All on a market day,
And she fell asleep
On the king's highway.'"

Now do you read about the peddler, brother. Mother used to say there
was a naughty word in it."

"I will," cried the youth, eagerly; but he paused and looked
steadfastly at the picture before him.

"Why don't you read?" asked Mary, endeavouring to confine his thoughts
to the childish employment.

"That's a pretty _skin_, ain't it?" said he, pointing to the red shawl
painted on the picture.

"_Skin_!" said Mary; "why, that's her shawl, brother."

"I'll steal one for my squaw," said he.

"_Steal_, brother!" said the trembling girl.

"No I won't, either, sister--don't you know mother says we must never
steal, nor tell stories, nor say bad words."

"That's right, brother. But you haven't got an ugly _squaw_, have
you?"

"No indeed, sister, that I haven't!"

"I thought you wouldn't have any thing to do with the ugly squaws."

"That I wouldn't--mine's a pretty one."

"Oh, heaven!" cried the weeping girl, throwing herself on her
brother's bosom. He kissed her, and strove to comfort her, and turned
to the book and continued to turn over the leaves, while Mary sat by
in sadness, but ever and anon replying to his childish questions, and
still striving to keep him thus diverted.

"Have you any of the clothes you wore when he was a child?" aske