"I'll make up a poem about you. You are the musician with the sweet
tones of your voice, and I am a brother-artist, a poet"

"Yes, yes! a lovely piece of poetry can be made about your pockets full
of long-legged creatures, that come crawling out and stretch their
horrid long legs all over the table!"

"Of course there could," said Fred stoutly, and went off to lodge his
useful persecuted gold-chafer in his cabinet.

When the children were clearing away their work, before going to bed,
their mother said:--

"To-morrow afternoon is a holiday, and I want you, Emma, to go and visit
the little sick girl, Nora Stanhope; and it will be well for you to go
every holiday and Sundays too. She will be very glad to see you."

"It will be a good thing for Emma to have a friend of her own; then
perhaps she'll let other people's friends alone," said Oscar, in a tone
of satisfaction.

Emma made no reply, but went quietly to bed; she had not the least idea
of giving up her friendship for Fani, to please anybody.

As they were all going upstairs in a little family procession,--first
Oscar, then Emma, then the aunt, and last the two younger
children,--Fred turned to Rikli and said:--

"Haha, Rikli, this goes capitally!" and he sang in a loud voice to a
tune of his own making:--