"You see, Crosby, that even a child may make use of spare moments. Why
don't you say how-d'-ye-do to Cecilia? Where're your manners?" demanded
the lady.

"Yes, 'm. How-do, Sissy?" asked the boy, uncomfortably. He was a very
prim child, immaculately dressed, his smooth hair plastered neatly down
over his forehead; and he sat bolt upright on the edge of his chair, for
he knew well his mother's views about lounging.

"Go and shake hands properly, like a little gentleman," bullied Mrs.
Pemberton.

With a sickly smile Crosby walked over to Sissy and grasped her hand. He
let it go with an "Ouch!" that made Mrs. Pemberton turn majestically and
glare at him.

"I'm so sorry I stuck you, Crosby," said Sissy, softly, smoothing out
her embroidery. "I forgot there was a needle in my work."

Crosby looked at her; he knew just how sorry she was.

"The thing to say, Crosby," thundered his mama, "is, 'Not at all, not at
all, Cecilia!'"

"Not at all--not at all, Cecilia," squeaked the boy, his thin voice like
a faint echo of his mother's heavy contralto.

Sissy yearned to beat him; she always did. That she did not invariably
yield to her desire to express her resentment of so awfully mothered a
person, was due solely to a sentiment of chivalry: he was so weak and so
devoted to herself, and it took some courage to be devoted to Sissy.

"I'm ashamed of my son!" thundered Mrs. Pemberton.

Yes, Sissy knew that formula. She had heard the announcement first one
memorable day at school when she led a revolt against the master--a
revolt which only the girls of her clique were expected to indorse. But
Crosby, either because he was so accustomed to playing with girls that
he considered himself one of them, or because of that dogged devotion
which even so stern a puritan as Sissy could not sufficiently
discourage, had taken the cue from her lips. He, too, had failed
publicly and vicariously, in the very presence of his lion-hearted,
bull-voiced mother, and sat a white-faced criminal awaiting execution,
when Mrs. Pemberton, rising in her voluminous black silk skirts, like an
outraged and peppery hen, stood a moment speechless with wrath, and
then broke forth with her denunciation before the whole school, visitors
and all. "Mr. Garvan," she had exclaimed in a deep voice all a-tremble,
"I am ashamed of my son!" and sailed majestically from the room.
Crosby's action had really touched Sissy at the time, though, like the
diplomat she was, sh