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Rh as we sit for half an hour listening to his tirade against Alice, mother, Amberley, and his own evil fate in marrying to become the father of such a daughter. (It was the best thing he ever did in his life.)

clock is striking eight, and we are all hunting ventre-à-terre for the family book of prayers. Not once since we came to Periwinkle have we looked upon its godly face, and now it is revenging itself by refusing to come forth and save us from utter disgrace. If papa discovers that we have eaten our morning meal without the seasoning salt of chapter, prayer, and benediction, then woe, woe, woe betide us! We distractedly turn the books over and over, but nowhere does that much-coveted old brown cover meet our eager gaze. Overhead we hear his warlike tread as he walks to the toilet table; he is putting on his coat, now he has opened the door, and is telling mamma she is the laziest woman in Christendom, and a disgrace to her sex; his foot is on the stair, oh!—o—o—oh! We tumble madly over each other in a dancing agony, and a pale tear trickles down Amberley's nose, when, hallelujah! I have found it, wedged in with its back to the wall, between the "Arabian Nights" and the "Pilgrim's Progress." We are saved by the skin of our teeth, and fly to our seats with thankful hearts while Alice finds the place, and sets the old marker, "Jesus wept," with its back broken in three places, on the open page. He is in the room before she has done, and having received our morning salutes, and