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"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

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The young ladies were in rapture. Miss Harper asked how he had done it.

Old Dismukes rose. "Good-night. Shall I send this boy that Yankee's horse?"

"I was so anxious about you," she replied, with feeling, and then broke into a quizzical laugh.

She dropped the rein and lifted both arms toward them. "Oh, blessings on your glorious old heathen hearts, what do you want of Diana, or of any one in heaven or earth except each other!"

Yet great is precept. Precept is a well. Up from its far depths by slow, humble, constant process you may draw, in a slender silver thread, and store for sudden use, the pure waters of character.

"You promised her--what did you promise her?"

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