y and poverty, just out of
curiosity. Then they go home and over a chafing dish of lobster or
terrapin, and champagne, they laugh at the funny things they saw. If the
poor could get detectives, and look in on the luxury and comfort of the
rich, they wouldn't see much fun in it, and there's less fun in a
down-town tenement than there is in a Fifth Avenue palace. I heard a
girl tell the other night about breaking in on a wake by chance.
'Weren't we lucky?' she said. 'It was so funny to see the poor people
weeping and drinking whisky at the same time. Isn't it heartless?' Yet
the dead--perhaps the bread-winner of the family, fallen in the
struggle--perhaps the last little comer, not strong enough to fight
this earth's battle--must have lain there in plain view of that girl.
Who was the most heartless? The family and friends who had gathered over
that body, according to their customs, or the party who looked in on
them and laughed?" Peter had forgotten where he was, or to whom he was
talking.

Leonore had listened breathlessly. But the moment he ceased speaking,
she bowed her head and began to sob. Peter came down from his indignant
tirade like a flash. "Miss D'Alloi," he cried, "forgive me. I forgot.
Don't cry so." Peter was pleading in an anxious voice. He felt as if he
had committed murder.

"There, there, Dot. Don't cry. It's nothing to cry about."

Miss D'Alloi was crying and endeavoring at the same time to solve the
most intricate puzzle ever yet propounded by man or woman--that is, to
find a woman's pocket. She complicated things even more by trying to
talk. "I--I--know I'm ver--ver--very fooooooolish," she managed to get
out, however much she failed in a similar result with her
pocket-handkerchief.

"Since I caused the tears, you must let me stop them," said Peter. He
had produced his own handkerchief, and was made happy by seeing Leonore
bury her face in it, and re-appear not quite so woe-begone.

"I--only--didn't--know--you--could--talk--like--like that," explained
Leonore.

"Let this be a lesson for you," said Watts. "Don't come any more of your
jury-pathos on my little girl."

"Papa! You--I--Peter, I'm so glad you told me--I'll never go to one."

Watts laughed. "Now I know why you charm all the women whom I hear
talking about you. I tell you, when you rear your head up like that, and
your eyes blaze so, and you put that husk in your voice, I don't wonder
you fetch them. By George, you were really splen