No. 3 declared that he had not made the old man’s account of himself a bit more unconnected than it really was, and, on the whole, it sounded very imposing to poor Tawny Rachel, who watched his departure with a sort of respectful awe.

No. 3 added, that not liking to disturb her faith either in the man or the bottle, he had himself helped her to the first dose, and had then begun to talk about the creature comforts before described, the very mention of which seemed to cheer the old lady’s heart, and to interest her at least as much as the biography of the travelling quack.

“So now, mother,” concluded he, “order the gruel, and we’ll give three cheers for Queen Elizabeth, and Dr. Faustus—­eh, Judy?  But I do think the poor old thing ought not to take that man’s poisonous rubbish; so here’s my shilling, and welcome, if you’ll give some more, and let us send for a real doctor.”

The “nothing-to-do” morning had nearly slipped away, between the conversation with Aunt Judy, and the visit to Tawny Rachel; and when, soon after, a friend called to take No. 3 off on a fossil hunt, and he had to snatch a hasty morsel before his departure, he declared he was like the poor governess in the song, who was sure to

“Find out,
With attention and zeal,
That she’d scarcely have time
To partake of a meal,”

there was so much to do.  “But you’re a capital fellow, Judy,” he added, kissing her, “and you’ll tell me a story when I come back;” and off he ran, shutting his ears to Aunt Judy’s declaration that she only told stories to the “little ones.”

Nor would she, on his return, and during the cozy evening “nothing-to-do” hour, consent to devote herself to his especial amusement only.  So, after arguing the point for a time, he very wisely yielded, and declared at last that he would be a “little one” too, and listen to a “little one’s” story, if Aunt Judy would tell one.

It was rather late when this was settled, and the little ones had stayed up-stairs to play at a newly-invented game—­bazaars—­in the nursery; but when No. 3 strode in with the announcement of the story, there was a shout of delight, followed by the old noisy rush down-stairs to the dining-room.

It is not a bad thing to be a “little one” now and then in spirit.  People would do well to try and be so oftener.  Who that has looked upon a picture of himself as a “little one,” has not wished that he could be restored to the “little one’s” spirit, the “little one’s” innocence, the “little one’s” hopeful trust?  “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven!” And though none of us would like to live our lives over again, lest our errors should be repeated, and so doubled in guilt, all of us, at the sight of what we once were, would fain, very fain, if we could, lie down to sleep, and awake a “little one” again.  Never, perhaps, is the sweet mercy of an early death brought so closely home to our apprehension, as when the grown-up, care-worn man looks upon the image of himself as a child.