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Betty, orphaned at the age of six, had been adopted by the kind-hearted Mrs. Wopp. The child found her chief joy in life, outside of Jethro, Nancy and Job, in a flower-bed. A small plot of ground had been allotted her for her own use, and there every spring for the last four years her precious flowers had bloomed and had filled her eyes with brightness and her soul with gladness. Morning-glories and nasturtiums were the surest to bloom. They climbed the strings so gracefully and turned the old weather-beaten fence where they grew into a tapestry of gorgeous dyes. “Arsk a dorg with a tin pail tied to his ear to smile at yer,” returned Moses, sourly. “Wisht that orful pitcher ’d fall inter the swill-pail an’ then turn a somerset in the soot-pile,” murmured the boy as he noticed the care exercised over its safety..

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“How in the name of orl the aporstles did that hen git in there?” questioned Mrs. Wopp. But a familiar sound came to his ear, and he turned to see the Doctor’s splendid bays pounding down the street, pulling the buggy almost by the taut reins. Billy followed quickly and was soon closeted with the man, who listened, first with a smile, afterward with grave attention. “Oh, no,” he sighed; “I suppose duty is the first business; but duty is such a narrow, knock-you-down little word.” His voice was tense and hard. “Yeh, Mar.”.