_IV.--The Fruit of My Visit_


A few days later I had a letter from my sister to say she had been
recalling a fortnight's experience they once had of courtship in a
boarding-house, so had determined to cut short her visit and hurry home.
Friday morning they intended to arrive--blessings on their thoughtful
hearts! And this was Friday. I hurried into the boys' room and shouted,
"Toddie! Budge! Who do you think is coming to see you this morning?"

"Who?" asked Budge.

"Organ-grinder?" queried Toddie.

"No; your papa and mamma."

Budge looked like an angel at once, but Toddie murmured mournfully, "I
fought it wash an organ-grinder."

"Oh, Uncle Harry," said Budge, in a perfect delirium of delight, "I
believe if my papa and mamma had stayed away any longer I believe I
would _die_. I've been so lonesome for them that I haven't known what to
do. I've cried whole pillowsful about it, right here in the dark."

"Why, my poor old fellow," said I, picking him up and kissing him. "Why
didn't you come and tell Uncle Harry, and let him try to comfort you?"

"I couldn't," said Budge. "When I gets lonesome, it feels as if my mouth
was all tied up, and a big, great stone was right in here." And Budge