nt--"

"The miserable old hunks! His heart's no bigger than a pin-head!"

"Please, I'm so sorry!" spoke up Celestina, a suspicious moisture in
her eyes.

"I know it, my dear," returned Straws. "Your heart is as big as his
whole body. One of your tears is more precious than his most priceless
nectar."

"I beg-ged him--that's why I--I stayed so--long!" half-sobbed
Celestina.

"There! there!" said Straws, wiping her eyes. "Of course it's very
tragic, but there's no use crying over spilled milk. Dear me, dear me;
what can we do? It's terrible, but you know the proverb: 'Every cloud
has a silver lining.' Perhaps this one has. I wish it had; or a golden
one! Think of a cloud of gold, Celestina! Wouldn't we be rich? What
would you do with it?"

"I'd go to--Monsieur Tortier's and--and get the bottle," said the
child in an agony of distress.

He lifted her on his knee, soothed her and held her in his arms,
stroking her dark hair.

"I believe you would," he said. "And now, as we haven't got the golden
cloud, let us see how we can get on without it. How shall we conquer
that ogre, Monsieur Tortier? What would you suggest, Celestina?"

The child looked into the fire, with eyes wide-open.

"Come, be a good fairy now," urged Straws, "and tell me."

"Why don't you write him a poem?" said Celestina, turning her eyes,
bright with excitement, upon him.

"A poem! Non--by Jove, you're right! An inspiration, my dear! People
like to be thought what they are not. They want to be praised for
virtues foreign to themselves. The ass wants to masquerade as the
lion. 'Tis the law of nature. Now Monsieur Tortier is a Jew; a scrimp;
a usurer! Very well, we will celebrate the virtues he hath not in
verse and publish the stanza in the Straws' column. After all, we are
only following the example of the historians, and they're an eminently
respectable lot of people. Celestina! You watch the coffee pot, and
I'll grind out the panegyric!"

The child knelt before the fire, but her glance strayed from the
steaming spout to the poet's face, as he sat on the edge of his bed
and rapidly scribbled. By the time the bacon was fairly done and the
other condiments in the frying-pan had turned to a dark hue, the
production was finished and triumphantly waved in mid air by the now
hopeful Straws.

"I'll just read you a part of it, my dear!" he said. "It's not half
bad. But perhaps it would--bore you?" With exaggerated modesty.

"Oh, I just love yo