ed a bit, or how could I remember everything so
clearly as I do, you know?'

And this was an argument that was, of course, unanswerable.

_THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL_

A STORY FOR CHILDREN

Her name was Priscilla Prodgers, and she was a very good little girl
indeed. So good was she, in fact, that she could not help being aware of
it herself, and that is a stage to which very many quite excellent
persons never succeed in attaining. She was only just a child, it is
true, but she had read a great many beautiful story-books, and so she
knew what a powerful reforming influence a childish and innocent remark,
or a youthful example, or a happy combination of both, can exert over
grown-up people. And early in life--she was but eleven at the date of
this history--early in life she had seen clearly that her mission was to
reform her family and relatives generally. This was a heavy task for one
so young, particularly in Priscilla's case, for, besides a father,
mother, brother, and sister, in whom she could not but discern many and
serious failings, she possessed an aunt who was addicted to insincerity,
two female cousins whose selfishness and unamiability were painful to
witness, and a male cousin who talked slang and was so worldly that he
habitually went about in yellow boots! Nevertheless Priscilla did not
flinch, although, for some reason, her earnest and unremitting efforts
had hitherto failed to produce any deep impression. At times she thought
this was owing to the fact that she tried to reform all her family
together, and that her best plan would be to take each one separately,
and devote her whole energies to improving that person alone. But then
she never could make up her mind which member of the family to begin
with. It is small wonder that she often felt a little disheartened, but
even that was a cheering symptom, for in the books it is generally just
when the little heroine becomes most discouraged that the seemingly
impenitent relative exhibits the first sign of softening.

So Priscilla persevered: sometimes with merely a shocked glance of
disapproval, which she had practised before the looking-glass until she
could do it perfectly; sometimes with some tender, tactful little hint.
'Don't you think, dear papa,' she would say softly, on a Sunday morning,
'don't you _think_ you could write your newspaper article on some
_other_ day--is it a work of _real_ necessity?' Or she would ask her
mother, who was certainl