didn't greatly take to kind Mammy Warren, but perhaps
yer'll like Simeon Stylites better. He's a rare good man is Simeon--wery
pious too. He sets afore him a saint o' the olden days, an' tries to
live accordin'. He ain't in yet, so yer can set down and take things
heasy."

Connie sat down.

"I'm that frightened!" she said. Agnes began to laugh.

"Sakes!" she exclaimed, "you ha' no cause. Simeon's a real feeling man,
and he's allers kind to pore gels, more particular ef they 'appen to be
purty."

Agnes now proceeded to light a fire in a huge, old-fashioned grate.
There seemed to be abundance of coal. She built the fire up high, and
when it roared up the chimney she desired Connie to draw near.

"You ain't got over yer fright yet," she began.

"Don't talk of it," said Connie.

"I guess as I won't--yer do look piquey. 'Ow's the other kid?"

"I dunno."

Agnes laughed and winked. After a minute she said,

"Yer needn't tell me. 'E's with Mrs. Anderson, mother o' the fireman.
The fireman--'e's a real 'andsome man--I can tike to that sort myself.
The kid's wery bad, he is. Wull, ef he dies it'll be a pity, for he 'ave
the makings in 'im of a first-rate perfessional."

"Perfessional?" said Connie.

"Yus--ef he lives 'e'll be one. Simeon Stylites 'ull see to that. You'll
be a perfessional, too. There's no use in these 'ere days bein' anything
of an amattur; yer must be a perfessional or yer can't earn yer bread."

"I don't understand," said Connie.

"Sakes! you be stupid. It's good to open yer heyes now. Wot do yer think
Mammy Warren wanted yer for?"

"I never could tell, only Mrs. Anderson said----"

"Yus--tell us wot she said. She's a torf--let's get _'er_ idees on the
subjeck."

"I won't tell yer," said Connie.

"Oh--_that's_ yer little gime! Wull--I don't keer--I'll tell yer from my
p'int o' view. Mammy Warren wanted yer--not for love--don't think no
sech thing--but jest 'cos she could make you a sort o' decoy-duck. W'ile
she was pickin' up many a good harvest, folks was a-starin' at you; an'
w'en the little boy were there too, w'y, they stared all the more. She
'ad the boy first, and he were a fine draw. But he tuk ill, an' then she
had to get some sort, an' I told her 'bout you, and 'ow purty you were,
an' wot golden 'air you 'ad. 'Her golden 'air was 'angin' down her
back,' I sung to her, an' she were tuk with the picter. Then I got yer
for her--you knows 'ow. Wull, pore Mammy Warren! she's in quad