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“Naw,” answered the boy, “What’d Mar say? she’d put a tin ear on me.” Out of the tail of her eye Betty noted this little touch of sentiment and was much impressed. “What song would you like, Betty?”.

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Thus adjured by his father the elocutionist began in a loud dramatic voice: “Well, the Prince will see that the glass slipper’s tied fast. He’s got no ‘Ho, minions!’ to hunt for you if you turn Cinderella again.” He stooped and fastened her tie. Picking up a second paper at random, “This is a composition on Alfred the Great,” he explained. He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back—.