that," said Pet, quietly.

Bog's eyes were instantly turned toward her with an expression of pride
and gratitude.

"Oh! of course, it is always best to obey the laws," observed Mr.
Minford.

"And I wouldn't for a moment be thought to advise anything else," added
Marcus Wilkeson; "though I never could help admiring pluck and sharpness
in business affairs."

"I am going to school again, Bog," said the young girl, hastening to
change the subject of conversation.

Bog looked up, surprised and pleased.

"Mr. Wilkeson," said Mr. Minford, "has taken another small share in my
invention, and pays me in advance for it. With that, Pet will finish her
education." The inventor would have made this disclosure of his private
affairs to no other human being but Bog; for this simple boy was the
only person he had ever known (excepting Marcus Wilkeson) who had not
openly ridiculed his mysterious labors.

"I am very glad to hear of it, sir," said Bog, awkwardly, but with an
air of profound respect. "How--how is the _ma_sheen, sir?" Bog asked the
question hurriedly, as if the machine were a sick person, whose health
he had until then forgotten to inquire after.

"Getting on finely, Bog. Only two or three springs, a cog here, a
ratchet here, a band at this point, and a lever up there (Mr. Minford
touched portions of the machine rapidly), and then look out for
a noise!"

"A noise!" repeated Bog, with juvenile earnestness.

"Not an explosion, my good fellow, but tremendous public
excitement--plenty of fame, mixed with a good deal of abuse at first,
and a _little_ money, I hope." The inventor's eyes flashed with the fire
that Bog had often seen; and when he emphasized the word "little," Bog
knew that he meant to express the boundlessness of the wealth that his
labors would bring to him.

"I believe it," said Bog, with sincerity pictured in every lineament of
his honest face. "I've always believed it."

"So you have, my dear Bog; and your faith has often cheered me," replied
the inventor, patronizingly. "By the way, how's your aunt?"

"Oh, yes; how _is_ your aunt, Bog?" asked Pet. "I had quite forgotten
her."

"She's pooty well, ony them rheumatics troubles her some. They're
workin' their way from her left arm into her head, aunt says. Week afore
last they was in her feet, and they've ben clear round her and goin'
back agen since then. Queer things, them rheumatics!"

"They are very painful, Bog, you know," said Pet.

"Ye