ituation.

"Guess," she said, blithely. Her inky hands were in her coat pockets,
her apron was covered by her outer garment, and her face was obscured by
the thick brown veil.

"I can't guess just what's the trouble," said her mother, "but I do
guess you've been getting into some mischief."

Marjorie was disappointed.

"Oh," she said, "I thought you'd guess that I've broken out with
smallpox or measles or something!"

Mrs. Maynard was preoccupied with some intricate sewing, and did not
quite catch the first part of Marjorie's remark. But the last words sent
a shock to her mother-heart.

"What!" she cried. "What do you mean? Smallpox! Measles! Has it broken
out in the school? Take off that veil!" As she spoke, Mrs. Maynard
jumped up from her chair, and ran to her daughter with outstretched
arms.

This was more interesting, and Midget danced about as she turned her
back to her mother to have the veil untied.

With trembling fingers Mrs. Maynard loosened the knot Miss Lawrence had
tied, and hastily pulled off the veil. Meantime, Midget had thrown off
her coat, and stood revealed in all her dreadful inkiness.

The saucy, blackened face was so roguishly smiling, and Mrs. Maynard was
so grateful not to see a red, feverish countenance, that she sat down in
a chair and shook with laughter.

This was just what Marjorie wanted, and, running to her mother's side,
she laughed, too.

"Get away from me, you disreputable individual," said Mrs. Maynard,
drawing her pretty morning dress away from possible contamination.

"Oh, Mothery, it's all dry now; it can't hurt you a bit! But isn't it
awful?"

"Awful! You scamp, what does it mean?"

"Why, it's ink, Mother, dear; and do you s'pose it will ever come off?"

"No, I don't! I think it's there for the rest of your life. Is that what
you wanted?"

"No. Not for my whole life. Oh, Mother, can't you get it off with milk,
or something?"

Marjorie had seen her mother try to take ink-stains out of white linen
with milk, and, though the operation was rarely entirely successful, she
hoped it would work better on her own skin.

"Milk! No, indeed. Pumice stone might do it, but it would take your skin
off, too. Tell me all about it."

So the inky little girl cuddled into her mother's arms, which somehow
opened to receive the culprit, and she told the whole dreadful story.
Mrs. Maynard was truly shocked.

"I don't wonder Miss Lawrence didn't know what to do with you," she
s