y enjoy the novel excitement. And
when we'd been at it some time we saw there was another head looking
over the wall.

"Hullo!" said Mrs. Bax, "here's another of them, run along and ask it to
come and join in."

She spoke to the village children, but nobody ran.

"Here, you go," she said, pointing at a girl in red plaits tied with
dirty sky-blue ribbon.

"Please, miss, I'd leifer not," replied the red-haired. "Mother says we
ain't to play along of him."

"Why, what's the matter with him?" asked Mrs. Red House.

"His father's in jail, miss, along of snares and night lines, and no one
won't give his mother any work, so my mother says we ain't to demean
ourselves to speak to him."

"But it's not the child's fault," said Mrs. Red House, "is it now?"

"I don't know, miss," said the red-haired.

"But it's cruel," said Mrs. Bax. "How would you like it if your father
was sent to prison, and nobody would speak to you?"

"Father's always kep' hisself respectable," said the girl with the dirty
blue ribbon. "You can't be sent to gaol, not if you keeps yourself
respectable, you can't, miss."

"And do none of you speak to him?"

The other children put their fingers in their mouths, and looked silly,
showing plainly that they didn't.

"Don't you feel sorry for the poor little chap?" said Mrs. Bax.

No answer transpired.

"Can't you imagine how you'd feel if it was _your_ father?"

"My father always kep' hisself respectable," the red-haired girl said
again.

"Well, I shall ask him to come and play with us," said Mrs. Red House.
"Little pigs!" she added in low tones only heard by the author and Mr.
Red House.

But Mr. Red House said in a whisper that no one overheard except Mrs. R.
H. and the present author.

"Don't, Puss-cat; it's no good. The poor little pariah wouldn't like it.
And these kids only do what their parents teach them."

If the author didn't know what a stainless gentleman Mr. Red House is he
would think he heard him mutter a word that gentlemen wouldn't say.

"Tell off a detachment of consolation," Mr. Red House went on; "look
here, _our_ kids--who'll go and talk to the poor little chap?"

We all instantly said, "_I_ will!"

The present author was chosen to be the one.

When you think about yourself there is a kind of you that is not what
you generally are but that you know you would like to be if only you
were good enough. Albert's uncle says this is called your ideal of
yourself. I will