Before I can speak, I discern a lurking smile in his face.

My boy Will stands in a sheepish posture, with his back as close to the jam, as if he were a polypus growing there, and his life depended upon the adhesion.
My eldest girl--another of the laboriously fitted out of the night before, has a marvellous affection for the little stool, and the skirt of her frock seems drawn about her feet in a most unbecoming manner.
But the third, an inveterate little romp, unconscious of shame, is curveting about in the most abandoned manner, utterly indifferent to the fact she has--not, indeed, "a rag to her back"-- for she is _all_ rags! One hour's play before my descent has utterly abolished all traces of my industry, so far as she is concerned.
I expostulate--at first more in sorrow than in anger--but as Mr.
Smith's face expands into a broad laugh, it becomes more anger than sorrow.

The child on the stool looks as if she would laugh, if she _dared_.

Lifting her up suddenly, I discover that the whole front breadth of her frock is burned--past redemption.
I say nothing--what _can_ I say?
I have not words equal to the emergency.

And the boy--boys _are_ such copies of their fathers! He actually forgets all embarrassment, and breaks out into a hearty laugh.