ll Jocko, are you?"

"No, dear, he is not my property, and I have no legal right to put him
out of his misery, but we must call up the Humane Society and notify
them at once. They will be merciful. It is better to have him die now
than live and suffer at the hands of a brutal owner, Peace. You must not
cry."

For great tears of pity were coursing down the rosy cheeks, and Glen was
trying his best to wipe them away with his fat little fists. Elizabeth
supplied the missing handkerchief, and as Peace raised it to her face,
the monkey gave a sudden convulsive shudder, the tiny paws loosed their
grasp about the warm neck, and Jocko lay dead in the child's arms.

For a full moment she stared at the pitiful form, and Elizabeth expected
a storm of grief and protest; but instead, the little maid drew a long,
deep breath as of relief, and said soberly, "Saint John is right. Jocko
is better off dead, but I'm glad he died in my arms, knowing I was good
to him, 'stead of being stoned to death by those cruel boys in the tree.
Where is Saint John? Has he already gone to telephone the Human Society?
He needn't to now. The monkey is dead. I'll run and catch him on my way
back to school. Good-bye."

She was off like a flash down the hill once more, but the preacher had
either taken a different route or already reached his goal, for he was
nowhere in sight. So Peace continued her way to the schoolhouse, racing
like mad to make up lost time. As she panted up the steps into the
dimness of the cool hall, she stumbled over a trembling figure crouching
in the darkest corner by the stairway, and drew back with a startled
cry, which was echoed by her victim, a frail, ragged, young urchin with
a thatch of jet black curls and great, hollow, dusky eyes.

"Who are you?" demanded Peace, not recognizing him as one of the regular
pupils at Chestnut School. "And what are you doing here?"

"Giuseppe Nicoli," answered the elf, looking terribly frightened and
shrinking further into his corner. "Me losa monk'. He come here but gona
way. W'en Petri fin', he keel me." The thin face worked pathetically as
the little fellow bravely tried to stifle the sobs which shook his
feeble body; and Peace, with childish instinct, understood what the
waif's queer, broken English failed to tell her.

"Is Petri your father?" she asked.

"No, no, no!" He shook his head vehemently to emphasize his words.

"Then why are you afraid of him?"

"He playa de organ, me see