calmly.

"For one thing, you would not listen to me; and for another, I don't
want my head broken."

Monica smiles, more because it is her duty to than for any other reason,
because after the smile comes a sigh.

"I know few knights would tilt a lance for me," she says; and Kelly,
glancing at her, feels a quick desire rise within him to restore
sunshine to her perfect face.

"One knight should be enough for any one, even the fairest ladye in the
land," he says.

"True; but what is to be for her who has none?" asks she, pathos in her
eyes, but a smile upon her lips.

"She must be a very perverse maiden who has _that_ story to tell,"
returns he; and then, seeing she has turned her face away from him, he
goes on quietly,--

"You know every one here, of course."

"Indeed, no. The very names of most are unknown to me. Tell me about
them, if you will."

"About that girl over there, for instance?" pointing to a dingy-looking
girl in the distance, whose face is as like a button as it well can be,
and whose general appearance may be expressed by the word "unclean."

"That is Miss Luker," says Kelly. "Filthy Lucre is, I believe, the name
she usually goes by, on account of her obvious unpalatableness (my own
word, you will notice), and her overwhelming affection for coin small
and great."

"She looks very untidy," says Monica.

"She does, indeed. She is, too, an inveterate chatterbox. She might give
any fellow odds and beat him; I don't believe myself there is so much
as one comma in her composition."

"Poor girl! What an exertion it must be to her!"

"Musn't it? Especially nowadays, when one _never_ goes for much, real
hard work of any kind being such a bore. That's her mother beside her.
She is always beside her. Fat little woman, d'ye see?"

"Yes, a nice motherly-looking little woman she seems to be."

"Horribly motherly! She has a birthday for every month in the year!"

"How?" says Monica, opening her eyes.

"I don't so much allude to her own natal day (which by this time I
should say is obscure) as to her children's. They came to her at all
seasons, from January to December. There are fourteen of them."

"Oh, it _can't_ be possible! Poor, _poor_ soul!" says Monica, feeling
quite depressed.

"She isn't poor; she is very well off," says Mr. Kelly, obtusely. "Much
better than she deserves. So don't grieve for her. She glories in her
crime. Well, it's 'a poor heart that never rejoices,' you know: so I