they don't look like the descendants of a prophet."

For a brief period in the unfolding spring Mrs. Lively experienced a
little lifting of her spirits. The season was marvelously beautiful in
Nauvoo: one serious expense, that for fuel, was stayed, and there was
the promise of increased sickness, and thus increased work for the
doctor. But this gleam was followed almost immediately by a shadow:
a scientific paper which he had despatched to a leading magazine
came back to him with the line, "Well written, but too heavy for our
purposes." [1]

"I knew it was," said Mrs. Lively. "You write the driest,
long-windedest things that ever I read."

Dr. Lively sighed, took his hat and went out, while Mrs. Lively, after
some moments of irresolution, set about getting dinner.

"Now, where's your father?" she impatiently demanded when the dinner
had been set on the table.

"Dunno," answered Master Napoleon through the potato by which his
mouth was already possessed.

The Little Corporal, as he was sometimes called by virtue of his
illustrious name, was a lean-faced lad with no friendly rolls
of adipose to conceal the fact that he was cramming with all his
energies.

"Why in the name of sense can't he come to his dinner?"