Phebe, coming up stairs with a pail of water in each hand, had stumbled and fallen.

The water was pouring down in a cataract, and after it rattled the pails Mrs.Clifford ran to the rescue.

Phebe was looking aghast, making a wild gesture with one hand, and rubbing her nose with the other.
"You didn't fall on your _nose_, Phebe ?" "Yes, ma'am," sobbed the poor girl; "and I believe it's broke; I heard it crack!" Mrs.Clifford might have upbraided Phebe for carrying two buckets up stairs at once, contrary to orders; but she did nothing of the sort; she kindly sent for the surgeon, who set the two fragments of nose together as well as he could.
"Never mind it, child," remarked he, facetiously, to the disconsolate Phebe; "you have only been beautifying your countenance.

Hereafter you will not be taken for one of the flat-nosed race." The young African saw no amusement in the joke, and left the room with her handkerchief at her eyes.
"Doctor," said Mrs.Clifford, "how could you speak so to that poor child?
She has just as much regard for her personal appearance as you and I have for ours.

You never use such language to one of my family; and please remember I would not have the feelings of my servants unnecessarily wounded any sooner than those of my children." "I stand rebuked, my dear madam," replied the family physician, respectfully.
"I wish there were more such women as Mrs.Clifford," mused he, as he drove home; "she lives up to the Golden Rule; and if there's any better prescription than the Golden Rule for making a lady, I haven't seen it yet; that's all." It was one of those days when strange things seem ready to happen, one after another.