cal.

"Vile Things!" she said.

Her mother, sewing beside another window of the room, looked up
inquiringly.

"What are, Florence?"

"Cousin Herbert and that nasty little Henry Rooter."

"Are you watching them again?" her mother asked.

"Yes, I am," said Florence; and added tartly, "Not because I care to,
but merely to amuse myself at their expense."

Mrs. Atwater murmured, "Couldn't you find some other way to amuse
yourself, Florence?"

"I don't call this amusement," the inconsistent girl responded, not
without chagrin. "Think I'd spend all my days starin' at Herbert
Illingsworth Atwater, Junior, and that nasty little Henry Rooter, and
call it _amusement_?"

"Then why do you do it?"

"Why do I do _what_, mamma?" Florence inquired, as in despair of Mrs.
Atwater's ever learning to put things clearly.

"Why do you 'spend all your days' watching them? You don't seem able to
keep away from the window, and it appears to make you irritable. I
should think if they wouldn't let you play with them you'd be too
proud----"

"Oh, good heavens, mamma!"

"Don't use such expressions, Florence, please."

"Well," said Florence, "I got to use _some_ expression when you accuse
me of wantin' to 'play' with those two vile things! My goodness mercy,
mamma, I don't want to 'play' with 'em! I'm more than four years old, I
guess; though you don't ever seem willing to give me credit for it. I
don't haf to 'play' all the time, mamma: and anyway, Herbert and that
nasty little Henry Rooter aren't playing, either."

"Aren't they?" Mrs. Atwater inquired. "I thought the other day you said
you wanted them to let you play with them at being a newspaper reporter
or editor or something like that, and they were rude and told you to go
away. Wasn't that it?"

Florence sighed. "No, mamma, it cert'nly wasn't."

"They weren't rude to you?"

"Yes, they cert'nly were!"

"Well, then----"

"Mamma, _can't_ you understand?" Florence turned from the window to
beseech Mrs. Atwater's concentration upon the matter. "It isn't
'_playing_'! I didn't want to 'play' being a reporter; _they_ ain't
'playing'----"

"_Aren't_ playing, Florence."

"Yes'm. They're not. Herbert's got a real printing-press; Uncle Joseph
gave it to him. It's a _real_ one, mamma, can't you understand?"

"I'll try," said Mrs. Atwater. "You mustn't get so excited about it,
Florence."

"I'm not!" Florence returned vehemently. "I guess it'd take more than
those two vile