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“Mudgie never saw any fairies,” replied Mrs. Mifsud, “But she is glad St. Elmo can see them.” “No, we won’t!” came a dozen voices. Mrs. Wopp’s eyes fell on the stained shawl..

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“He mustn’t git thinkin’ too much of hisself ’cause o’ what he did this day,” warned the boy’s mother. “Pride goes afore distruckshing, an’ a horty spirit afore a fall.” Had he but dreamed on for an hour or so he would have returned, rested, refreshed, the cheery boy that helped to make the Bennett house a home. But a voice in the road above startled him. Only a word was spoken, a greeting; but it was surly and foreign, Italian. Moses was whistling a dismal discordant air in the backyard when the voice of his mother smote his ears. She stood at the end of the creaking wharf, and one little bare arm was lifted high. She held a small fruit jar filled with water and beet juice. It was awkward, but Billy had insisted on the fruit jar,—“So’s it will be sure to break; it’s the only kind of a bottle that always will break.”.