It was over at last ­the long, tedious journey, which Horace spoiled for everybody, and which nobody but Horace enjoyed.

When they drove up to the quiet old homestead at Willowbrook, and somebody had taken the little baby, poor Mrs. Clifford threw herself into her mother’s arms, and sobbed like a child.  Everybody else cried, too; and good, deaf grandpa Parlin, with smiles and tears at the same time, declared, ­

“I don’t know what the matter is; so I can’t tell whether to laugh or cry.”

Then his daughter Margaret went up and said in his best ear that they were just crying for joy, and asked him if that wasn’t a silly thing to do.

Grace embraced everybody twice over; but Horace was a little shy, and would only give what his aunties called “canary kisses.”

“Margaret, I want you to give me that darling baby this minute,” said Mrs. Parlin, wiping her eyes.  “Now you can bring the butter out of the cellar:  it’s all there is to be done, except to set the tea on the table.”

Then grandma Parlin had another cry over little Katie:  not such a strange thing, for she could not help thinking of Harry, the baby with sad eyes and pale face, who had been sick there all the summer before, and was now an angel.  As little Prudy had said, “God took him up to heaven, but the tired part of him is in the garden.”

Yes, under a weeping-willow.  Everybody was thinking just now of tired little Harry, “the sweetest flower that ever was planted in that garden.”

“Why, Maria,” said Mrs. Clifford, as soon as she could speak, “how did you ever travel so far with this little, little baby?”

“I don’t know, mother,” replied Mrs. Clifford; “I think I could never have got here without Grace:  she has been my little waiter, and Katie’s little nurse.”

Grace blushed with delight at this well-deserved praise.

“And Horace is so large now, that he was some help, too, I’ve no doubt,” said his grandmother.

“I would have took the baby,” cried Horace, speaking up very quickly, before any one else had time to answer, ­“I would have took the baby, but she wouldn’t let me.”

Mrs. Clifford might have said that Horace himself had been as much trouble as the baby; but she was too kind to wound her little boy’s feelings.

It was certainly a very happy party who met around the tea-table at Mr. Parlin’s that evening.  It was already dusk, and the large globe lamp, with its white porcelain shade, gave a cheery glow to the pleasant dining-room.

First, there was cream-toast, made of the whitest bread, and the sweetest cream.

“This makes me think of Mrs. Gray,” said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; “I hope she is living yet.”

“She is,” said Margaret, “but twelve years old.”

Grace looked up in surprise.

“Why, that’s only a little girl, aunt Madge!”

“My dear, it’s only a cow!”

“O, now I remember; the little blue one, with brass knobs on her horns!”

“Let’s see; do you remember Dr. Quack and his wife?”

“O, yes’m! they were white ducks; and how they did swim!  It was a year ago.  I suppose Horace doesn’t remember.”

“Poh! yes, I do; they were spin-footed!”

“Why, Horace,” said Grace, laughing; “you mean web-footed!”

Horace bent his eyes on his plate, and did not look up again for some time.

There was chicken-salad on the table.  Margaret made that ­putting in new butter, because she knew Mrs. Clifford did not like oil.

There was delicious looking cake, “some that had been touched with frost, and some that hadn’t,” as grandpa said, when he passed the basket.

But the crowning glory of the supper was a dish of scarlet strawberries, which looked as if they had been drinking dew-drops and sunshine till they had caught all the richness and sweetness of summer.

“O, ma!” whispered Grace, “I’m beginning to feel so happy!  I only wish my father was here.”

After tea, grandpa took Horace and Grace on each knee, large as they were, and sang some delightful evening hymns with what was left of his once fine voice.  He looked so peaceful and happy, that his daughters were reminded of the Bible verse, “Children’s children are the crown of old men.”

“I think now,” said Mrs. Clifford, coming back from putting the baby to sleep, “it’s high time my boy and girl were saying, ’Good-night, and pleasant dreams.’”

“Aunt Madge is going up stairs with us; aren’t you, auntie?”

“Yes, Horace; your other auntie wouldn’t do, I suppose,” said Louise.  “That makes me think of the way this same Horace used to treat me when he was two years old. ‘Her can’t put me to bed,’ he would say; ’her’s too little.’”

“I remember,” said Margaret, “how he dreaded cold water.  When his mother called him to be washed, and said, ‘Ma doesn’t want a little dirty boy,’ he would look up in her face, and say, ’Does mamma want ’ittle cold boy?’”

The happy children kissed everybody good-night, and followed their aunt Madge up stairs.  Now, there was a certain small room, whose one window opened upon the piazza, and it was called “the green chamber.”  It contained a cunning little bedstead, a wee bureau, a dressing-table, and washing-stand, all pea-green.  It was a room which seemed to have been made and furnished on purpose for a child, and it had been promised to Grace in every letter aunt Madge had written to her for a year.

Horace had thought but little about the room till to-night, when his aunt led Grace into it, and he followed.  It seemed so fresh and sweet in “the green chamber,” and on the dressing-table there was a vase of flowers.

Aunt Madge bade the children look out of the window at a bird’s nest, which was snuggled into one corner of the piazza-roof, so high up that nobody could reach it without a very tall ladder.

“Now,” said aunt Madge, “the very first thing Grace hears in the morning will probably be bird-music.”

Grace clapped her hands.

“And where am I going to sleep?” said Horace, who had been listening, and looking on in silence.  His aunt had forgotten that he was sometimes jealous; but she could not help knowing it now, for a very disagreeable expression looked out at his eyes, and drew down the corners of his mouth.

“Why, Horace dear, we have to put you in one of the back chambers, just as we did when you were here before; but you know it’s a nice clean room, with white curtains, and you can look out of the window at the garden.”

“But it’s over the kitchen!”

“There, Horace,” said Grace, “I’d be ashamed!  You don’t act like a little gentleman!  What would pa say?”

“Why couldn’t I have the big front chamber?” said the little boy, shuffling his feet, and looking down at his shoes.

“Because,” said aunt Madge, smiling, “that is for your mother and the baby.”

“But if I could have this little cunning room, I’d go a flyin’.  Grace ain’t company any more than me.”

Aunt Madge remembered Horace’s hit-or-miss way of using things, and thought of the elephant that once walked into a china shop.

Grace laughed aloud.

“Why, Horace Clifford, you’d make the room look like everything; you know you would!  O, auntie, you ought to see how he musses up my cabinet!  I have to hide the key; I do so!”

Horace took the room which was given him, but he left his sister without his usual good-night kiss, and when he repeated his prayer, I am afraid he was thinking all the while about the green chamber.

The next morning the children had intended to go into the garden bright and early.  Grace loved flowers, and when she was a mere baby, just able to toddle into the meadow, she would clip off the heads of buttercups and primroses, hugging and kissing them like friends.

Horace, too, had some fancy for flowers, especially flaring ones, like sunflowers and hollyhocks.  Dandelions were nice when the stems would curl without bothering, and poppies were worth while for little girls, he thought, because, after they are gone to seed, you can make them into pretty good teapots.

He wanted to go out in the garden now for humming-birds, and to see if the 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 back, a little ashamed at being laughed at; “how did I know it wasn’t loaded?  Do you think ’twould look well for a little girl not to be afraid of a gun?”

This speech amused everybody, particularly Horace, who was glad to have Grace say a foolish thing once in a while.  It raised his self-esteem somehow; and, more than that, he liked to remember her little slips of the tongue, and tease her about them.

It was not long before he had seen all there was to be seen in the house, and wanted to “do something.”  As for reading, that was usually too stupid for Horace.  Grace kindly offered to play checkers with him; but she understood the game so much better than he did, that she won at every trial.

This was more than he could bear with patience; and, whenever he saw that she was gaining upon him, he wanted to “turn it into a give-game.”

“But that isn’t fair, Horace.”

“Well, ma, just you see how mean Grace is!  There, she wants me to jump that man yonder, so she’ll take two of mine, and go right in the king-row!”

“But, Horace,” said Grace, gently, “what do I play for if I don’t try to beat?”

“There now,” cried he, “chase my men up to the king-row, so I can’t crown ’em, do!”

“Just what I’m doing,” replied Grace, coolly.

“Well, I should think you’d better take ’em all, and be done with it!  Before I’d be so mean as to set traps!”

“Look, Horace,” said Grace; “you didn’t jump when you ought to, and I’m going to huff your man.  See, I blow it, just this way; old Mr. Knight calls it huffing.”

“Huff away then! but you stole one of those kings.  I’ll bet you stole it off the board after I jumped it.”

“Now, Horace Clifford,” cried Grace, with tears in her eyes, “I never did such a thing as to steal a king; and if you say so I won’t play!”

“Horace,” said Mrs. Clifford, who had been trying for some time to speak, “what do you play checkers for?”

“Ma’am?  Why, to beat, of course.”

“Well, do you consider it work, or play?”

“Work, or play?  Why, it’s a game, ma; so it’s play.”

“But Grace was so obliging that she wished to amuse you, my son. Does it amuse you?  Doesn’t it make you cross?  Do you know that you have spoken a great many sharp words to your kind sister?

“Shut the board right up, my child; and remember from this time never to play checkers, or any other game, when you feel yourself growing fretful!  As you sometimes say, ‘It doesn’t pay.’”

Horace closed the board, looking ashamed.

“That’s sound advice for everybody,” said aunt Madge, stroking her little nephew’s hair.  “If children always remembered it, they would get along more pleasantly together ­I know they would.”

Grace had been looking ill all the morning, and her mother now saw symptoms of a chill.  With all her tender anxiety she had not known how tired her little daughter was.  It was two or three weeks before the child was rested; and whenever she had a chill, which was every third day for a while, she was delirious, and kept crying out, ­

“O, do see to Horace, mamma!  Mr. Lazelle will forget!  O, Horace, now don’t let go my hand!  I’ve got the bundles, mamma, and the milk for the baby.”

And sometimes Mrs. Clifford would call Horace to come and take his sister’s hand, just to assure her that he was not lying cold and dead in the waters of Lake Erie.  It was really touching to see how heavily the cares of the journey had weighed on the dear girl’s youthful spirits.