ed up at the sky and exclaimed:

"I guess it'll snow to-night. If it does, come over to my house
to-morrow and we'll get out the sled. We can take turns bein' horse, you
know."

But Irene shook her head.

"I'd like to," she replied, "but mamma won't let me. I haven't a dress
that's fit."

Lou's face gleamed with surprise.

"O, my!" she said, "can't you ever take a hill-ride, or build a
snow-man, or--" but Irene looked so sober that Lou's sympathies awoke.
"Never mind," she added, "you'll come up to your grandpa's again in the
summer; then you'll wear _do-up_ clothes, and we'll have lots of fun."

"The _do-up_ clothes are the worst," replied Irene sadly. "Mamma don't
want _them_ soiled."

Lou looked down at her plaid frock; she thought of the plentiful
ginghams at home. Suddenly she turned and rushed headlong back to mamma.

"O my!" she began, "Irene Clarke can't have no fun! She ain't got no
slide-dresses, she can't soil her _do-up_ clothes, and--O my!
mamma--it's all them ruffles and puffs! I wouldn't wear 'em for the
world! No, I just wouldn't!"

Mamma could but smile.

"I am glad my little girl has changed," she said. "I feared, a while
ago, that because she could not have ruffles and puffs on her dresses
she was going to wear them up in her face."

The free little out-of-doors girl blushed; and then she could have
hugged her plaid frock for very joy.

SUGAR RIVER.

[Illustration]

"Sugar River!" The little cup-bearing hand stood transfixed halfway from
table to lip. The silver cup tilted part way over in sheer astonishment.
Drip, drip, drip, dripped the contents down into Tot's scrap of ruffled
and embroidered lap.

"Bless me! Look at that child!" cried Tot's papa. And Tot was looked at
and hustled away, and the little silver mug tried to drown itself in a
yellow stream of sunshine flowing across the table; and, failing in
that, tried to sparkle just as Tot's eyes had sparkled, and failed in
that, too. For that was O, very bright--nothing was brighter than Tot's
eyes.

"Well, Totchen," said Tot's boy-uncle Will, looking up from his book as
something pierced his knee, as only Tot's small elbow could pierce.
"Well, Totchen; what is it? Stories? Then _jump_!"

O, what happy state to sit enthroned upon a big boy-uncle's knee, and
listen, listen, listen, with eyes like the dog's in the fairy story--"as
big as the great round tower at Copenhagen"--more or less!

"What shall I tell you? A