in his kind voice.

"I don't think it's queer not to like disagreeable things," Helena
said.

"Well, no; but all the same, we've got to stand them. Sam has no
patience with anything disagreeable. Why, when he was a little
fellow--let me see, he was younger than David; about four, I think--he
scratched his finger one day pretty severely; it smarted, I guess,
badly. Anyway, he roared! Then he picked up a pair of scissors and ran
bawling to his mother; 'Mamma, cut finger off! It hurts Sam--cut
finger off!' That's been his principle ever since: 'it hurts--get rid
of it.'"

"I don't blame him in the least," Helena protested gayly; "I'm sure
I've wanted to 'cut finger off.' And I have done it, too!"

"Well," said the doctor with great pretence of gravity, "I suppose,
then, we'll have to tell old Mr. Wright that nobody must ever do
anything he doesn't want to do? It appears that he's worried, too,
because the young gentleman isn't industrious. The fact is, he thinks
Sam would rather come up here than work over his ledgers," he teased.

Helena sprung to her feet, nervously. "But I wish he wouldn't come! I
don't want him to come. I can't help it; indeed I--I can't help it!"
She spoke with a sort of gasp. Instantly David, who had been lounging
in the swing, slipped down and planted himself directly in front of
her, his arms stretched out at each side. "I'll take care of you," he
said protectingly.