e, who has tried him in bronze, in plaster, and in clay with equal
lack of success. There is something untransferable in the boy's face;
perhaps its outshining character. I know that I never yet have said to
any woman who knew him, no matter what her age, condition, or
sentimental predilections, "Isn't he a homely cub!" that she didn't
reply indignantly: "He's _sweet_!" Now when women--wonderful women like
the Bonnie Lassie and stupid women like Mrs. Rosser, the twins' aunt,
and fastidious women like Madame Tallafferr--unite in terming a smiling
human freckle "_sweet_," there is nothing more to be said. Adonis may as
well take a back seat and the Apollo Belvedere seek the helpful
resources of a beauty parlor. Said young Phil carelessly:

"Dominie, who's the newcomer?"

"That," said I, "is Barbran."

"Barbran," he repeated with a rising inflection. "It sounds like a
breakfast food."

"As she pronounces it, it sounds like a strain of music," said I.

"What's the rest of her name?"

"I am not officially authorized to communicate that."

"Are you officially authorized to present your friends to her?"

"On what do you base your claim to acquaintanceship, my boy?" I asked
austerely.

"Oh, claim! Well, you see, a couple of days ago, she was on the
cross-town car; and I--well, I just happened to notice her, you know.
That's all."

"Yet I am informed on good and sufficient authority that her appearance
is not such as to commend her, visually, if I may so express myself, to
the discriminating eye."

"Who's the fool--" began Mr. Stacey hotly.

"Tut-tut, my young friend," said I. "Certain ladies whom we both esteem
can and will prove, to the satisfaction of the fair-minded, that none of
the young person's features is exactly what it should be or precisely
where it ought to be. Nevertheless, the net result is surprising and
even gratifying."

"She's a peach!" asseverated my companion.

"Substantially what I was remarking. As for your other hint, you need no
introduction to Barbran. Nobody does."

"_What_?" Phil Stacey's plain face became ugly; a hostile light
glittered in his eyes. "What do you mean by that?" he growled.

"Simply that she's about to become a local institution. She's plotting
against the peace and security of Our Square, to the extent of starting
a coffee-house at Number 26."

"No!" cried Phil joyously. "Good news!"

"As a fad. She's a budding millionairess from the West."

"No!" growled Phil