plaining. And if she didn't know--suddenly the Child, with a throb
of pride, hoped that the Lady did not know. But perhaps some slight
explanation was necessary.

"Of course," the Child burst out, hurriedly, her cheeks aflame,--"of
course it would be nice to love both of 'em the same day, but--but
they're not that kind of a father and mother. I've thought it all
over and made the reasonablest plan I know how to. I'm going to begin
to-morrow--to-morrow is Tuesday, my father's day."

It was cold in the company-room, and any moment Marie might come and
take her away. She was always a little pressed for time.

"I must be going," she said, "or Marie will come. Good-bye. Give my
love to the baby." She always sent her love to the baby in the
beautiful Lady's arms.

The Child's home, though luxurious, had to her the effect of being a
double tenement. An invisible partition divided her father's side
from her mother's; her own little white room, with Marie's alcove,
seemed to be across the dividing line, part on one side, part on the
other. She could remember when there had not been any invisible
partition, but the intensity of her little mental life since there
_had_ been one had dimmed the beautiful remembrance. It seemed to her
now as a pleasant dream that she longed to dream again.

The next day the Child loved her father, for it was Tuesday. She went
about it in her thorough, conscientious little way. She had made out
a little programme. At the top of the sheet, in her clear, upright
hand, was, "Ways to Love My farther." And after that:

"1. Bringing in his newspaper.
"2. Kissing Him goodmorning.
"3. Rangeing his studdy table.
"4. Putting flours on " "
"5. Takeing up His male.
"6. Reeching up to rub My cheak against his cheak.
"7. Lerning to read so I can read His Books."

There were many other items. The Child had used three pages for her
programme. The last two lines read:

"Praing for Him.
"Kissing Him goodnight."

The Wednesday programme was almost identical with this one, with the
exception of "my mother" instead of "my farther." For the Child did
not wish to be partial. She had always had a secret notion that it
would be a little easier to read her mother's books, but she meant to
read just as many of her "farther's."

During the morning she went in to the Lady and reported progress so
far. Her cheeks were a delicate pink with excitement, and she panted
a little when she spoke.

"I'