game that she forgot not only the sham skirt but the sham
pretense upon which she had bullied Irene. And she played so well that
there was only one forfeit against her name, though Crosby, who had
named himself treasurer, held half the bangle bracelets and pins and
handkerchiefs of the little circle as evidence of dereliction in others.

He called her name first, as he stood with her little turquoise ring in
his hand and an odd light in his eye that might have enlightened her;
but she was looking toward the door, where the young gentleman from San
Francisco, in a Byronic pose, was staring gloomily at Irene dancing with
a rival, and so joying in the dance that she had forgotten all about
him.

"Open your mouth and shut your eyes,
And I'll give you something to make you wise,"

chanted Crosby, holding out the ring and beckoning to her.

Closing her eyes upon the spectacle of Mr. Morrow's suffering, Sissy
opened a mouth about which the malicious smile still lingered.

Crosby hesitated a moment. He was very much afraid of her, but as she
stood, docile and innocent, before him, with her eyes shut and her tiny
red mouth open, he could not fancy consequences nearly so well as he
could picture the thing his wish painted.

In a moment he had realized it, and Sissy, overwhelmed by astonishment,
dumb and impotent with the audacity of the unexpected, felt his arms
close about her and his greedy lips upon hers.

Oh, the rage and shame of the proper Sissy! Her mouth fell shut and her
eyes flew open. And then, if she could, she would have closed them
forever; for, before her in the sudden silence, towering above the
triumphant and unrepentant Crosby, stood Mrs. Pemberton, a portentous
figure of shocked matronly disapproval. And she promptly placed the
blame where mothers of sons have placed it since the first similar
impropriety was discovered.

"Cecilia!" she cried in that velvety bass that echoed through the
room--"Cecilia Madigan, you--teaching my son a vulgar kissing game--you,
the good one! Oh, you deceitful little thing!"

A MERRY, MERRY ZINGARA

It had been Crosby Pemberton's custom to climb the steps that led to
Madigan's every Wednesday afternoon at four, with his music neatly done
up in a roll, on his way to play duets with Sissy.

On the Wednesday that followed his birthday party--the mere mention of
which, after the lapse of four days, was enough to send Sissy into
hysterics--that young lady wa