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“Lady of the Lake?” she finished quickly in a question. “Do you know that, too? I love it.” It was Saturday afternoon on a busy street in the city. Moses Wopp and Clarence Crump, at whose home the former was spending the week end, were on their way to the skating-rink. If they had wanted to skate there, the streets would have accommodated them with a sufficiently smooth surface, as an early frost had rimed the pavement. Betty had lent Moses fifteen cents of her Christmas money and was receiving two pink and white candy canes as her weekly dividend—“truly a lean annuitant.”.

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“Murder! Murder!” he shouted with all his strength; and his boy’s voice reached far up and down the lonely distances. Moses’ intuition regarding St. Elmo’s retreat proved to be correct, and it was a sadly dejected countenance on which he gazed when he looked into the cave. Tears, dirt, and the juice of Saskatoon berries mingled on the fair sleeping face of the child, until he seemed to be the very Cree Indian he had so often personated in his play. His long curls were tangled and matted with small twigs. His diminutive brown velvet coat displayed a large rent in the elbow through which oozed a pathetic-looking suppuration of pink and white checked shirt. “She’s a reglar show-lady,” defended Moses. This was hardly a strategic move from Moses, as he had just asserted they had been doing nothing. “Go and bring him now, so you can renovate his appearance before supper,” directed the mother..