ran to her as
a woman led her out to a coupe at the curb, and tugged at the ribbon of
her cloak.

"Where do you live? Say, where do you?" he demanded.

"I--I don't know." The woman laughed.

"Why, yes, you do, Cissy. Tell him directly, now."

She put one tiny finger in her mouth.

"I--I gueth I live on Chethnut Thtreet," he called as the door slammed
and shut her in.

His sister amicably offered him half the plush bag to carry, and opened
a running criticism of the afternoon.

"Did you ever see anybody act like that Fannie Leach? She's awfully
rough. Miss Dorothy spoke to her twice--wasn't that dreadful? What made
you dance all the time with Cissy Weston? She's an awful baby--a regular
fraid-cat! We girls tease her just as easy--do you like her?"

"She's the prettiest one there!"

"Why, Dick Pendleton, she is not! She's so little--she's not half so
pretty as Agnes, or--or lots of the girls. She's such a baby. She puts
her finger in her mouth if anybody says anything at all. If you ask
her a single thing she does like this: 'I don't know, I don't know!'"

He smiled scornfully. Did he not know how she did it?

"And she can't talk plain! She lisps--truly she does!"

Was ever a girl so thick-headed as that sister of his!

"She puts her finger in her mouth! She can't talk plain!" Alas, my
sisters, it was Helen's finger that toppled over Troy, and Diane de
Poitiers stammered!

For two long months the little girl led him along the primrose way. The
poor fellow thought it was the main road; he had yet to learn it was but
a by-path. But the Little God was not through with him. That very night
he reached the top of the wave.

He came down to breakfast rapt and quiet. He salted his oatmeal by
mistake, and never knew the difference. His sister laughed derisively,
and explained his folly to him as he swallowed the last spoonful, but
he only smiled kindly at her. After his egg he spoke.

"I dreamed that it was dancing school. And I went. And I was the only
fellow there. And what do you think? _All the little girls were
Cecilia!_"

They gasped.

"You don't suppose he'll be a poet, do you? Or a genius, or anything?"
his mother inquired anxiously.

"No!" his father returned. "I should say he was more likely to be a
Mormon!"

[C] Copyright, 1902, by McClure, Phillips & Co.

"A Model Story in the Kindergarten"[D]

BY JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM.

(_Arranged by Maude Herndon and Grace Kellam._)

[Fr