heart fail her, and then she came forward to meet the little group.

Letitia and Arthur were thin, prim-looking, rather plain children; but
Oliver was the very picture of a father's darling, a boy that any
childless man would bitterly covet, any childless woman crave and
yearn for, with a longing that women alone can understand; a child
who, beautiful as most childhood is, had a beauty you rarely see--
bright, frank, merry, bold; half a Bacchus and half a Cupid, he was a
perfect image of the Golden Age. Though three years old, he was
evidently still "the baby," and rode on his father's shoulder with a
glorious tyranny charming to behold.

"Who's that?" said he, pointing his fat fingers and shaking his curls that
undulated like billows of gold.

"Papa, who's that?"

Hardly could there have been put by anyone a more difficult question.
Dr. Grey did not answer, but avoided it, taking the whole three to
Christian's side, and bidding them, in a rather nervous voice, to "kiss
this lady."

But that ceremony the two elder obstinately declined.

"I am a big boy, and I don't like to be kissed," said Arthur.

"Nurse told us, since we had no mamma of our own, we were not to
kiss any body but our aunts," added Letitia.

Dr. Grey looked terribly annoyed, but Christian said calmly, "Very