nt to an eminently good college, and had been
instructed long and hard in psychology, so that she knew the
psychologic moment when she met it. She now arose with congratulations
and farewells. Mrs. Mowgelewsky arose also with Izzie still in her
arms. She lavished endearments upon him and caresses upon his short
black nose, and Izzie received them all with enthusiastic gratitude.

"And I think," said Miss Bailey in parting, "that you had better let
that dog come with me. He seems a nice enough little thing, quiet,
gentle, and very intelligent. He can live in the yard with Rover."

Morris turned his large eyes from one to another of his rulers, and
Izzie, also good at psychologic moments, stretched out a pointed pink
tongue and licked Mrs. Mowgelewsky's cheek. "This dog," said that lady
majestically, "iss mine. Nobody couldn't never to have him. When I was
in mine trouble, was it mans or was it ladies what takes und gives me
mine money back? No! Was it neighbors? No! Was it you, Miss Teacher,
mine friend? No! It was that dog. Here he stays mit me. Morris, my
golden one, you wouldn't to have no feelin's 'bout mamma havin' dogs?
You wouldn't to have mads?"

"No, ma'am," responded her obedient son; "Missis Bailey she says it's
_fer_ boys they should make all things what is lovin' mit cats und
dogs und horses."

"Goot," said his mother; "I guess, maybe, that ain't such a
foolishness."

It was not until nearly bedtime that Mrs. Mowgelewsky reverted to that
part of Miss Bailey's conversation immediately preceding the discovery
of the loss of the purse.

"So-o-oh, my golden one," she began, lying back in her chair with Izzie
on her lap--"so-o-oh, you had friends by the house when mamma was by
hospital."

"On'y one," Morris answered faintly.

"Well, I ain't scoldin'," said his mother. "Where iss your friend? I
likes I shall look on him. Ain't he comin' round to-night?"

"No ma'am," answered Morris, settling himself at her side, and laying
his head close to his friend. "He couldn't to go out by nights the
while he gets adopted off of a lady."

HAMLIN GARLAND

A Camping Trip

It was the fifteenth of June, and the sun glazed down upon the dry
cornfield as if it had a spite against Lincoln Stewart, who was riding
a gayly painted new sulky corn-plow, guiding the shovels with his feet.
The corn was about knee-high and rustled softly, almost as if
whispering, not yet large enough to speak aloud.

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