ched his arithmetic, and his voice was soon heard asking
how he was ever to put an end to a sum that would turn to nothing but
everlasting threes.

"What have you been doing, young ladies?" asked Dr. May. "Did you call
on Miss Walkingham?"

"Flora and Blanche did," said Ethel; "I thought you did not want me to
go, and I had not time. Besides, a London grand young lady--oh!" and
Ethel shook her head in disgust.

"That is not the way you treat Meta Rivers."

"Oh, Meta is different! She has never been out!"

"I should have been glad for you to have seen Miss Walkingham," said
her father. "Pretty manners are improving; besides, old Lady Walkingham
begged me to send my daughters."

"I should not have seen her," said Ethel, "for she was not well enough
to let us in."

"Was it not pushing?" said Flora. "There were the Andersons leaving
their card!"

"Those Andersons!" exclaimed the doctor; "I am sick of the very sound of
the name. As sure as my name is Dick May, I'll include it in Margaret's
book of fines."

Flora looked dignified.

"They are always harping on that little trumpery girl's nonsense," said
Harry. "Aught, aught, eight, that is eight thousandths, eh, Norman! If
it was about those two fellows, the boys--"

"You would harp only on what affects you?" said the doctor.

"No, I don't; men never do. That is one hundred and twenty-fifth."

"One man does it to an hundred and twenty-five women?" said Dr. May.

"It is rather a female defect, indeed," said Margaret.

"Defect!" said Flora.

"Yes," said Dr. May, "since it is not only irksome to the hearers, but
leads to the breaking of the ninth commandment."

Many voices declared, in forms of varying severity, that it was
impossible to speak worse of the Andersons than they deserved.

"Andersons again!" cried Dr. May. "One, two, three, four, five, six
forfeits!"

"Papa himself, for he said the name," saucily put in Blanche.

"I think I should like the rule to be made in earnest," said Ethel.

"What! in order to catch Flora's pence for Cocksmoor?" suggested Harry.

"No, but because it is malice. I mean, that is, if there is dislike,
or a grudge in our hearts at them--talking for ever of nasty little
miserable irritations makes it worse."

"Then why do you do it?" asked Flora. "I heard you only on Sunday
declaiming about Fanny Anderson."

"Ha!" cried out all at once. "There goes Flora."

She looked intensely serious and innocent.

"I know," said