the fire and fed it barley water with an ink dropper.
"I'm going to keep it for my very own. I've always wanted one," she
announced joyfully.

"Well, you just won't do anything of the kind," was my firm conclusion.
I had no wish to be unkind, but repression was the only course left. I
loved children, as I loved flowers, but it was impossible to inflate
another figure for expense.

"It's all we can do to support that menagerie in the garden without
starting an orphan asylum. Babies, as well as cats and dogs, cost
money."

"Yes, yes, I know, Miss Jenkins," replied my companion eagerly, her face
bright with some inner sunbeam of hope, "but wait till I tell you of a
darling plan. The other day I saw the nicest sign over a door. It said
'Moderated and modified milk for babies and small animals.' It's tin,
the milk I mean, and that is what I am going to feed them on. It's so
filling."

"Beautifully simple, and tin milk must be so nourishing, is it not?" I
snapped, ruffled by Miss Gray's never-defeated hopefulness. "Of course
the kind gentleman who keeps this magic food, stands at the door and
hands it out by the bucketful."

That was before I learned that sarcasm could no more pierce Jane's
optimism, than a hair would cut a diamond.

"No," she answered sweetly, "he sits on the floor, and takes cans from a
box. He gets money for it, but I am going to make a grand bargain with
him. I am going to trade him a package of tracts and that cunning
parrakeet for milk."

"How do you know he wants parrots or tracts?" I said.

"Oh, yes, he does. I talked to him. He showed me a faded old tract he
had been reading every day for twenty years. Now his eyes are failing.
He can get his customers to read a new one to him. He wants the bird for
a spot of color as it grows darker. Please, dear Miss Jenkins, let me
keep the baby!"

Of course I was weak enough to give in. Jane made her bargain and for a
month the little stray stayed with us. Then one glorious dawn the tiny
creature smiled as only a baby can, and gave up the struggle. In a
corner of the garden, where the pigeons are ever cooing, we made a small
mound.

To this good day Ishi declares the children's god Jizo comes every night
to take the child away, but cannot because it lies in a Christian grave,
and that is why he keeps the spot smothered in flowers.

Not in the least discouraged by death or desertion of her proteges, Jane
Gray continued to bring things home, and one