“Aunt Judy, it was horrible!” cried No. 6; “savage and horrible!” she repeated, and burst the next instant into a flood of tears.

“Oh, my old darling No. 6,” cried Aunt Judy, covering the sobbing child quite round with both her arms, “surely you are not going into hysterics about the rabbits’ tails too!  I doubt if even their little mammas did that.  Come! you must cheer up, or mamma will leave to be sent for to say that if you are so unreasonable, you must never listen to Aunt Judy’s stories any more.”

No. 6’s emotion began to subside under the comfortable embrace, and Aunt Judy’s joke provoked a smile.

“There now, that’s good!” cried Aunt Judy; “and now, if you won’t be ridiculous, I will finish the story.  I almost think the prettiest part is to come.”

This was consolation indeed; but No. 6 could not resist a remark.

“But, Aunt Judy, wasn’t that aunt—­”

“Hush, hush,” interrupted Aunt Judy, “I apologized for both aunt and grandmamma before I told you what they did.  They meant to do for the best, and

‘The best can do no more.’

They cured the evil too, though in what you and I think rather a rough manner.  And rough treatment is sometimes very effectual, however unpleasant.  It was but a preparation for the much harder disappointments of older life.”

“Poor little things!” ejaculated No. 6, once more.  “Just tell me if they cried dreadfully.”

“I don’t think I care to talk much about that, dear No. 6,” answered her sister.  “They had cried almost as much as they could do in one day, and were stupified by the new misfortune, besides which, they had a feeling all the time of having brought it on themselves by being dreadfully naughty.  It was a sad muddle altogether, I must confess.  The shock upon the poor children’s minds at the time must have been very great, for the memory of that bereavement clung to them through grown-up life, as a very unpleasant recollection, when a thousand more important things had passed away forgotten from their thoughts.  In fact, as I said, the motherless little girls really broke their hearts over a parcel of rabbits’ tails.  But I must go on with the story.  After a day or two of dull desolation, the children wearied even of their grief.  And both grandmamma and aunt became very sorry for them, although the fatal subject of the Tods was never mentioned; but they bought them several beautiful toys which no child could help looking at or being pleased with.  Among these presents was a brown fur dog, with a very nice face and a pair of bright black eyes, and a curly tail hung over his back in a particularly graceful manner; and this was, as you may suppose, in the children’s eyes, the gem of all their new treasures.  The feel of him reminded them of the lost Tods; and in every respect he was, of course, superior.  They named him ‘Carlo,’ and in a quiet manner established him as the favourite creature of their play.  And thus, by degrees, and as time went on, their grief for the loss of the Tods abated somewhat; and at last they began to talk about them to each other, which was a sure sign that their feelings were softened.