more.

"I did have some," he explained; "but I gave half of it to a boy. Vat's
what my Sunday-school teacher said I must do. And ven, by and by, I took
his hoop," he added, as he resumed his march.

"Did your Sunday-school teacher tell you to do that?"

"No; but I just fought I would. He couldn't give me half of it, you see,
for it wouldn't be good for anyfing if it was busted."

"No?" The stranger felt that the child's logic was better than his
moral tone.

"I'm going to be good now, all ve time," the boy went on, looking up with
an angelic smile. "When my mamma says 'No, Mac,' I shall say 'All right,'
and when my papa smites me, I shall turn ve uvver also. Vat's ve way."

"Does he smite you?"

The smile vanished, as the child slowly nodded three times.

"Yes, awful."

"What did you do to make him smite you?"

Silence.

"What was it?"

The stranger's voice was not so stern as it might have been, and the
smile came back and dimpled the child's cheeks, as he answered,--"Pepper
in ve dining-room fireplace."

"What made you do that, you sinner?"

"A boy told me. You ought to have heard vem sneeze, and ven papa
fumped me."

"Much?"

The child eyed him distrustfully,

"What for do you want to know?"

"Oh, because--you see, I used to get thumped, myself, sometimes."

"Yes, he fumped awful, and ven he stopped and sneezed, and I sneezed,
too, and we all sneezed and had to stop."

"And then did you turn the other also?"

"No; I hadn't begun yet. I only sneezed a great deal, and papa said
somefing about rooty ceilings."

In vain the stranger pondered over the last remark. He was unable to
discover its application, and accordingly he passed to a more
obvious question.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"What's yours?"

"Gifford Barrett."

"Mine is McAlister Holden."

"Um-m. I think I haven't met you before."

"You could if you'd wanted to, I live in ve brown house, and I've seen
you lots of times. Once you 'most stepped on me."

"Did I? How did that happen?"

"You were finking of fings and got in my way."

"Was that it?"

"Vat's what my papa says, when I do it. He says I ought to look where I
am going." The boy's tone was severe.

There was a pause, while Mac swung his hoop against a post. On the
rebound, it struck the stranger a sharp blow just under and back of the
knees. He turned and glared at the child.

"I feel just as if I should like to say confound it," Mac drawled,
twisting