“That is a pearl,” said she.

“A pearl, auntie?  Why, isn’t that something precious?  Mamma has pearls in a ring.”

“I will show it to your uncle,” replied Mrs. Clifford, turning it over in her hand; “but I think it is a true pearl, only a little discolored by the heat it has undergone in being cooked.”

“O, I’ll have a ring made of it!  What funny oysters you do have out West!”

“The pyurl is mine,” said Katie; “I finded it in my toof.”

“No, it’s mine, darling, for ’twas in my stew.”

“Well, tenny rate, I want um,” said Katie, dancing around the sofa, “if you pees um.”

“O, no; little bits of girlies don’t need it—­do they, auntie?”

“I hope,” said Mrs. Clifford, smiling, “it will not cost either of you any of those ‘falling pearls which men call tears.’  It isn’t worth crying about.”

Katie was easily persuaded to give it up.

“You may keep um if you’ll let me have two poun’s of gold; two poun’s to make me a ying.”

Dotty could not promise the gold; but said Katie should have the next pickled lime she bought with her money; and this answered quite as well.

Just as Dotty was going to her room to put away the choice pearl in a box which stood in her trunk, there was a loud noise.  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.”