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To which she
always replied: "I suppose you great lazy fellows would like to have the
cobwebs grow on you. But you sha'n't, while I am in the house." Then,
with a few dexterous flourishes of her cloth, she would start the dust
up in a cloud.
On this morning, Marcus Wilkeson, being in the most tolerant of moods,
merely said "Whew!" and took a seat by his favorite window, the lower
sash of which he threw wide open, with the vain hope that some of the
dust would blow out. Miss Philomela smiled at this act so as to be seen
by him. But he did not appear to notice it. Then she whisked her cloth
under his very nose, as if to challenge objections. After this
aggravation had been repeated three or four times, Marcus felt compelled
to make a mild protest.
"Great deal of dust, sister," he said, stating what he presumed would
not be contradicted.
"Is there?" replied Miss Philomela, exulting in the success of her
stratagem. "_I_ didn't notice it; nor would you, if you had some
business to look after, like other people, instead of stopping in the
house all day.


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