e dirt-colored toad was still living in his "nest," in one of the
flower-beds.

But the first thing the children heard in the morning was the pattering
of rain or the roof. No going out to-day. Grace was too tired to care
much. Horace felt cross; but remembering how many messages his
grandmother had sent to her "good little grandson," and how often aunt
Madge had written about "dear little Horace, the nephew she was so proud
of," he felt ashamed to go down stairs scowling. If his good-morning
smile was so thin that you could see a frown through it, still it was
better than no smile at all.

The breakfast was very nice, and Horace would have enjoyed the hot
griddle-cakes and maple sirup, only his aunt Louise, a handsome young
lady of sixteen, watched him more than he thought was quite polite,
saying every now and then,--

"Isn't he the image of his father? Just such a nose, just such a mouth!
He eats fast, too; that is characteristic!"

Horace did not know what "characteristic" meant, but thought it must be
something bad, for with a child's quick eye he could see that his pretty
aunt was inclined to laugh at him. In fact, he had quite an odd way of
talking, and his whole appearance was amusing to Miss Louise, who was a
very lively young lady.

"Horace, you were telling me last night about Mr. Lazelle: what did you
say was the color of his coat?"

"I said it was _blueberry_ color," replied Horace, who could see, almost
without looking up, that aunt Louise was smiling at aunt Madge.

"He is a _musicianer_ too, I think you said, and his hair _crimps_. Dear
me, what a funny man!"

Horace was silent, and made up his mind that he should be careful
another time what he said before aunt Louise.

Soon after breakfast he and Pincher went "up-attic" to see what they
could find, while Grace followed her grandmother and aunties from parlor
to kitchen, and from kitchen to pantry. She looked pale and tired, but
was so happy that she sang every now and then at the top of her voice,
forgetting that little Katie was having a nap.

Pretty soon Horace came down stairs with an old, rusty gun much taller
than himself. Mrs. Clifford was shocked at first, but smiled the next
moment, as she remembered what an innocent thing it was, past its
"prime" before she was of Horace's age.

The little boy playfully pointed the gun towards Grace, who screamed
with fright, and ran away as fast as she could.

"I don't care," cried she, coming