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Betty said her prayers that night before her cyclamen. It seemed to her a “mornin’-glory that had been growed by an angel, its petals sparkled so, an’ it smelled so pure.” She breathed very softly her thanksgiving, with a vague feeling that it had wings and could find its way better than she knew. As the program went on Moses finally caught the eye of his little sister. The joyful news was passed on and Nell looked up, but it was a disconcertingly cold look that returned her inquiring gaze at Howard. So frigid was his expression that she did not attempt to turn her head in that direction again. From time to time Betty turned to wave her hand thereby causing much merriment among those who watched her childish enjoyment. Jean changed the situation by proposing a toast to Billy’s new sister..

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Billy stooped to tie shoestrings already tidy; he was gaining time for thinking. “I reckon doing things you don’t like is work, and doing things you do like is play,” he explained, doubtfully. 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.” Diligently as Betty had tended this little garden, it was considered to be a family possession, the child’s own particular treasures lying beyond its fragrant border. Her cherished morning-glories and climbing nasturtiums found a welcome support in the old wooden fence. “Some of the real stuff,” he requested, “just to make these folks realize they haven’t begun to live yet.”.