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“If you are tired I won’t go on,” observed Aunt Kipp, mildly.

“I’m not tired, ‘m; it’s a very interesting story,” replied Toady, with a gravity that nearly upset the old lady.

“Well, in spite of all this, that kind, good, forgiving grandma left that bad boy twenty thousand dollars when she died. What do you think of that?” asked Aunt Kipp, pausing suddenly with her sharp eye on him.

“I–I think she was a regular dear,” cried Toady, holding on to the chair with both hands, as if that climax rather took him off his legs.

“And what did the boy do about it?” continued Aunt Kipp, curiously.

“He bought a velocipede, and gave his sister half, and paid his mother’s rent, and put a splendid marble cherakin over the old lady, and had a jolly good time, and–“

“What in the world is a cherakin?” laughed Aunt Kipp, as Toady paused for breath.

“Why, don’t you know? It’s a angel crying, or pointing up, or flapping his wings. They have them over graves; and I’ll give you the biggest one I can find when you die. But I’m not in a very great hurry to have you.”

“Thankee, dear; I’m in no hurry, myself. But, Toady, the boy did wrong in giving his sister half; she didn’t deserve any; and the grandma left word she wasn’t to have a penny of it.”

“Really?” cried the boy, with a troubled face.

“Yes, really. If he gave her any he lost it all; the old lady said so. Now what do you think?” asked Aunt Kipp, who found it impossible to pardon Polly,–perhaps because she was young, and pretty, and much beloved.

Toady’s eyes kindled, and his red cheeks grew redder still, as he cried out defiantly,–

“I think she was a selfish pig,–don’t you?”

“No, I don’t, sir; and I’m sure that little boy wasn’t such a fool as to lose the money. He minded his grandma’s wishes, and kept it all.”

“No, he didn’t,” roared Toady, tumbling off his chair in great excitement. “He just threw it out a winder, and smashed the old cherakin all to bits.”

Aunt Kipp dropped her work with a shrill squeak, for she thought the boy was dangerous, as he stood before her, sparring away at nothing as the only vent for his indignation.

“It isn’t an interesting story,” he cried; “and I won’t hear any more; and I won’t have your money if I mayn’t go halves with Polly; and I’ll work to earn more than that, and we’ll all be jolly together, and you may give your twenty thousand to the old rag-bags, and so I tell you, Aunt Kipp.”

“Why, Toady, my boy, what’s the matter?” cried a mild voice at the door, as young Lamb came trotting up to the rescue.

“Never you mind, Baa-baa; I shan’t do it; and it’s a mean shame Polly can’t have half; then she could marry you and be so happy,” blubbered Toady, running to try to hide his tears of disappointment in the coat-skirts of his friend.

“Mr. Lamb, I suppose you are that misguided young man?” said Aunt Kipp, as if it was a personal insult to herself.

“Van Bahr Lamb, ma’am, if you please. Yes, thank you,” murmured Baa-Baa, bowing, blushing, and rumpling his curly fleece in bashful trepidation.

“Don’t thank me,” cried the old lady. “I’m not going to give you anything,–far from it. I object to you altogether. What business have you to come courting my niece?”

“Because I love her, ma’am,” returned Van, with unexpected spirit.

“No, you don’t; you want her money, or rather my money. She depends on it; but you’ll both be disappointed, for she won’t have a penny of it,” cried Aunt Kipp, who, in spite of her good resolutions, found it impossible to be amiable all at once.

“I’m glad of it!” burst out Van, indignant at her accusation. “I didn’t want Polly for the money; I always doubted if she got it; and I never wished her to make herself a slave to anybody. I’ve got enough for all, if we’re careful; and when my share of the Van Bahr property comes, we shall live in clover.”