o be quite
honest, I have found them rather a happy lot."

"Listen, Everett," said the girl. "Come down to me a month from to-night
and I will show you that I am right and you are wrong."

"A _whole_ month!" the man protested.

"Yes, a whole month--"

* * * * *

The sun was shining into the front windows of a room on the first floor
of a high tenement down on the east side. A snow-white bed stood far
enough from the wall to allow it to be made up with perfect ease. In
front of it stood a screen covered with pretty chintz; white muslin
curtains hung at the windows; everything was spotless from the
kalsomined ceiling to the oiled floors, where a few bright-colored rugs
made walking possible. As Katherine Anderson explained to some scoffing
friends who came down to take luncheon with her.

"Everything is clean and in its proper place and the object-lesson is
invaluable to these poor children. If you go into their homes you will
find that the bed is a bundle of rags in some dark closet, while the
front room is kept for company. Here I show them how easily this sunny
room is made into a sitting-room by putting that screen in front of the
bed and then there is a healthful place to sleep. You may think that I
am over-enthusiastic, but I enjoy my classes and I assure you they are
_all day long_, for besides the usual schoolroom work we have cooking
classes, physical culture, nature classes and little talks about all
sorts of things. I have one girl who I know is going to be a great
novelist, she has such an imagination," said Katherine. "Her big sister
always has a duplicate of anything of mine the child happens to admire,
and the other day she came rushing in with the tale that 'burglars' had
broken into their house the night before and stolen twenty bottles of
ketchup and 'some _preserts_.'"

"Had they?" asked the guest. "What peculiar taste in burglary!"

"No," laughed Katherine; "she has no big sister and their house is one
back room four flights up."

Four weeks had passed since the Morrison dinner, and Katherine was
tired. Then, too, she was not altogether sure that her mission was a
success. Was she wishing for the fleshpots of upper Fifth Avenue, or was
it just physical weariness that would pass with the night? She had sent
off a note in the morning:

"MY DEAR EVERETT--The work of the model flat is still in existence,
and it is almost a month--a whole month. On Saturd