ou know, Willie Jones," Margery concluded
impressively, "I love Effie much better than I do some of my relations!"

This seemed an irrefutable argument to Margery, but Willie Jones again
protested.

"She's a hired girl even if you do love her."

"She's not, I say!" roared Margery. "And, Willie Jones, you stop
arguing! You're making me sicker! Just see how my head wobbles!" She
wobbled it shakily a moment to show, and then demanded sharply: "Now,
then, Willie Jones, is Effie a hired girl or isn't she?"

Many a man before Willie Jones has been forced to make a choice between
facts and a lady's increasing illness on the one hand and fancy and her
smiles on the other. Like most of his kind, Willie Jones had not the
moral courage to face the lady's increasing illness.

"Well, if you say she's not a hired girl, I guess she's not. You ought
to know."

"And will you apologize to her for your mistake?"

"Yes, if you want me to."

"Well, I do want you to. So come on. I'm nearly dead now and I just tell
you I can't stand it much longer."

When they reached the kitchen, they found Effie with nose a-tilt and
eyes suspiciously red. At sight of them she burst into a loud and
cheerful strain:

_"Wait till the clouds roll by, Nellie,
Wait till the clouds roll by, . . ."_

"Effie," Margery began. Effie did not hear, so Margery had to try again.
"Effie!"

"Oh," remarked Effie, stopping her song and looking at them, as it were,
for the first time. Then she asked, in her haughtiest tone: "Is it me
yir talkin' to?"

"Willie Jones wants to say something to you, Effie."

Margery gave Willie a push and he began bravely:

"Say, Effie, I'm awfully sorry I called you that. But it wasn't my
fault, honest it wasn't, because, don't you know, I thought you were.
But Margery says you're not. She says you're one of the fambly."

"Did she honest?" cried Effie, eagerly, her face lighting up.

"Sure she did, Effie. Why, do you know, Effie, she says she loves you
better than she does any of her real relations!"

When you undertake to do a thing it's a pleasure to do it properly.

"No!" said Effie, incredulously.

"Cross my heart!" vowed Willie Jones, suiting action to word.

"Oh, you darlint!" Effie cried, opening her arms to gather in her
repentant child. Then she stopped in concern. "What's ailin' yir
finger?"

"Stung!" Margery quavered. "But don't mind that, Effie. It don't hurt
much now. It's my stummic