had told Mr. Flint, modern life was too
complex to be compressed into a "Yes" or "No."

As she was pondering, her eyes fell upon the portrait,--Ruth's
portrait, hanging there over the mantel.

"I wish you were here, Grandmamma," Winifred exclaimed, looking up at
it, "to help me clear up the muddle in my mind! I have a kind of
feeling that _you_ would understand."

The girl's sentimental musings were rudely interrupted by a race
between Jimmy and Paddy, who came rushing through the room, regardless
of tea-tables or rugs.

"Jump for it, Paddy!" cried Jim, snatching a piece of cake from the
tray, and holding it high in air.

"Don't, Jimmy! You will upset the table."

"Come on then, Paddy, we'll jump in the hall, where there is no girl
to be nervous--I hate nervous people."

"Whose cane is that, McGregor?" he asked, as he saw an unfamiliar
walking-stick on the hall table.

"It belongs to Mr. Flint--he must have forgot it," the butler
answered.

"I say, Fred, has Mr. Flint been here?" Jimmy called out from the
baluster, over which he was leaning at imminent risk to life and limb.

"He has," Winifred answered repressively.

"Did he say anything about seats for the football game on Thanksgiving
Day?"

"He did not."

"Then I think I'd better sit right down and write to him, for he told
me not to let him forget about it, and all the best seats will be
taken if he does not attend to it soon."

"Papa," appealed Winifred to her father, who had come in and was
taking off his coat in the hall, "you won't let Jimmy write to Mr.
Flint, will you?"

"I _will_ write," said the voice from the stairs, "and I'll tell him
how cross you are. I did once, and he only laughed."

"Jimmy!"

"Yes, I did. It was that day when you would not let me go fishing with
him. I told him you were quite nice sometimes, but you could be horrid
to people when they did things that didn't suit you, and he said that
was just the way you struck him."

"Papa!" cried Winifred, now thoroughly out of temper, "will you forbid
Jimmy to talk me over with strangers? It is really too much, the way
that boy's tongue runs on."

"You understand him, don't you?" the Professor asked mildly, looking
over his gold-bowed spectacles.

"Yes, but other people don't."

"Are they so much less clear-sighted than you?" With this gentle
sarcasm her father slowly mounted the stairs, leaving Jimmy making
faces of triumph through the open door.

It is often a cu