est of it?"

"I will tell you all I know, but that isn't much," he replied, crossing
his legs and looking into the fire. "I used to like to hear it from my
grandfather when I was a child, and I found it interested Mark, my
nephew, when he was a little chap. This is the way it goes.

"A man was once taking a long journey on foot. After walking several
hours he came to a deep, swift stream over which there had once been a
bridge, but now it was not to be seen. On the opposite side of the river
a man was chopping wood, and the traveller called to him to know what
had become of the bridge. The reply--and this is always sung--was:--

"'The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do,
The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,
Fol de rol de ri.'

"'How deep is the river?' the traveller then asked.

"'Throw in a stone, 'twill sink to the bottom,
Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri--' etc.

"'How can I get across?' was the next question.

"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,
Fol de rol de ri do--' etc.

"And that is all."

"Doesn't the poor man ever get across?" asked Mrs. Morrison.

"I have told you all I know, madam," the Spectacle Man answered, with a
little wave of his hand.

"I think there is a story hidden in it, and that is perhaps why children
enjoy it; it is like having a picture to look at." It was Miss Sherwin
who spoke.

"That is a bright idea," said Mr. Clark; "but who will find the hidden
story for us?"

"I believe Miss Sherwin herself can find it," suggested Mrs. Morrison.
"Suppose we give her two weeks to hunt for it, and then have a meeting
to hear it."

"Oh, please--" began Miss Sherwin.

"Don't say a word, Lil, you know you can," urged Miss Moore, as her
friend tried to make herself heard above the chorus of approval.

"The meeting to be held in my study," added the Spectacle Man.

"But suppose I can't do it," cried Miss Sherwin.

"Father could, if he were here," put in Frances; "he is splendid for
stories!"

"Is he the John Chauncey Morrison who writes so charmingly?" asked Miss
Sherwin.

"Why, do you know him?" exclaimed Frances.

"No, but I have read his stories."

"I think he writes the nicest ones in the world," said the little girl.

"But we don't expect everybody else to think so, Wink," her mother
added, laughing.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

A PORTRAIT.

One pleasant afternoon Emma came to ask if