"No," said Phemie, "unless something possesses that sappy little Parmlee
to make one of his visitations. John Milton says that out on the road
it blows so you can't stand up. It's just like that idiot Parmlee to be
blown in here, and not have strength of mind enough to get away again."

Mr. Harkutt smiled. It was that arch yet approving, severe yet
satisfied smile with which the deceived male parent usually receives any
depreciation of the ordinary young man by his daughters. Euphemia was
no giddy thing to be carried away by young men's attentions,--not
she! Sitting back comfortably in his rocking-chair, he said, "Play
something."

The young girl went to the closet and took from the top shelf an
excessively ornamented accordion,--the opulent gift of a reckless
admirer. It was so inordinately decorated, so gorgeous in the blaze of
papier mache, mother-of-pearl, and tortoise-shell on keys and keyboard,
and so ostentatiously radiant in the pink silk of its bellows that it
seemed to overawe the plainly furnished room with its splendors. "You
ought to keep it on the table in a glass vase, Phemie," said her father
admiringly.

"And have HIM think I worshiped it! Not me, indeed! He's conceited
enough already," she returned, saucily.

Mr. Harkutt again smiled his approbation, then deliberately closed his
eyes and threw his head back in comfortable anticipation of the coming
strains.

It is to be regretted that in brilliancy, finish, and even cheerfulness
of quality they were not up to the suggestions of the keys and keyboard.