"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. I'm no mollycoddle. How came you to know it? Have you heard the name before?" "I think I have—long, long ago, when I was a child," replied Mrs. "I forbid you to do that. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what to do. " On leaving Mr.
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