folks he could not get along with, they were “the gals.”  Besides which, he was sure now to have the coldest seat around the fire, the darkest place at the table, the backward ride in the carriage, and to get the necks of chickens and the tails of fishes for his share of the dinner.  Boys were always put upon by the girls, and sorry enough he was, he said, that any were coming to the house.  And he vowed a boyish vow—­“by thunder and lightning”—­that he would torment the girls to the very best of his ability.

Girls, forsooth! girls coming to live there day and night, and eat, and drink, and sleep, and sit, and sew, and walk up and down through the halls, and parlors, and chambers of Dell-Delight—­girls, with their airs, and affectations, and pretensions, and exactions—­girls—­pah! the idea was perfectly disgusting and offensive.  He really did wonder at “Brother,” but then he already considered “Brother” something of an old bachelor, and old bachelors would be queer.

But Thurston well knew how to smite the rock, and open the fountain of sympathy in the lad’s heart.  He said nothing in reply to the boy’s saucy objections, but on the evening that little Miriam arrived, he beckoned Paul into the parlor, where the child sat, alone, and pointing her out to him, said in a low tone: 

“Look at her; she has lost all her friends—­she has just come from her mother’s grave—­she is strange, and sad, and lonesome.  Go, try to amuse her.”

“I’m going to her, though I hardly know how,” replied the lad, moving toward the spot where the abstracted child sat deeply musing.

“Miriam!  Is that your name,” he asked, by way of opening the conversation.

“Yes,” replied the child, very softly and shyly.

“It’s a very heathenish—­oh, Lord!—­I mean it’s a very pretty name is Miriam, it’s a Bible name, too.  I don’t know but what it’s a saint’s name also.”

The little girl made no reply, and the boy felt at a loss what to say next.  After fidgeting from one foot to the other he began again.

“Miriam, shall I show you my books—­Scott’s poems, and the Waverley novels, and Milton’s Paradise, and—­”

“No, I thank you,” interrupted the girl, uneasily.

“Well, would you like to see my pictures—­two volumes of engravings, and a portfolio full of sketches?”

“No, thank you.”

“Shall I bring you my drawer full of minerals?  I have got—­”

“I don’t want them, please.”

“Well, then, would you like the dried bugs?  I’ve got whole cards of them under a glass case, and—­”

“I don’t want them either, please.”

“Dear me!  I have not got anything else to amuse you with.  What do you want?” exclaimed Paul, and he walked off in high dudgeon.