her bright smiles, "there is a secret
drawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money in it.
She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make you think so, for
your mother wouldn't deceive you."

"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he turned
half a somerset, stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a drum
would cost.

The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to Mrs.
Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page were the
letters "D.," "B. W.," "B. G. P.," and "F.," on separate lines, one
above another. But there were no figures before any of the letters but
the "B. W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather smaller,
as you could see by looking carefully.

"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the bad
words aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of the
fellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."

"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that you
never talk anything worse than lingo."

"I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor told lies."

"No, indeed," said Grace, delighted. "To be sure, you've forgotten, and
slammed doors, and lost things; but you know I didn't set that down."

I wish all little girls felt as much interest in their younger brothers
as this sister felt in Horace. Grace had her faults, of which I might
have told you if I had been writing the book about her; but she loved
Horace dearly, kept his little secrets whenever she promised to do so,
and was always glad to have him do right.

Mrs. Clifford was pleased with the idea of the blue book, and kissed
Horace and Grace, saying they grew dearer to her every day of their
lives.

* * * * *

One night, not long after this, Horace went to the post-office for the
mail. This was nothing new, for he had often gone before. A crowd of men
were sitting in chairs and on the door-stone and counter, listening to
the news, which some one was reading in a loud, clear voice.

Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace three letters and a
newspaper. After tucking the letters into his raglan pocket, Horace
rolled the paper into a hollow tube, peeping through it at the large
tree standing opposite the post-office, and at the patient horses
hitched to the posts, waiting for their masters to come out.

He listened for some time to the dreadful account of a late battle,