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Harold turned and looked to where May Nell stood with the twins, sorting her flowers. “Isn’t she a daisy, though? Little—why, she’s only a baby.” For five hundred dollars a week he had pranced to the admiring vaudeville audience; but once let the artist lay bare his soul in real music and whispering reaches his ear. But there was no use complaining, no one could understand his disgust. In the midst of these reflections, the trombone player of the orchestra came to him..

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“My conscience! You can’t eat all—” May Nell stopped, conscious of an unkindness. But the boy only laughed; he was used to comments on his appetite. The loft in the barn had been swept and garnished by Mr. Wopp for Betty’s moving picture show, and thither, after the preliminary how-d’you-do’s were over, she led her eager audience. Her head was held at the exact angle for ascending the ladder to perform the imposing duties of moving picture operator, and her foot was on the first rung when she suddenly thought of the collection box for the carrots the children were carrying. THE place Billy called the Fo’castle was a tiny room in the sloping windmill tower. It was level with the second floor of the house, and a narrow, railed bridge connected it with a door in his mother’s room. Under it was the above-ground cellar, overhead the big tank. Still higher whirled the great white wings that pumped the beauty-giving water to lawn and gardens. “I comed,” he said, calmly, “I see Billy boat.”.