uch a dainty little hand! How good the paper smelt! How devilish it
read! The world's idea about the devil always smelling of sulphur and
brimstone is a slander on that much abused person. I can positively
affirm that he smells of musk, attar, myrrh; as though he had lain
somewhere with a lady's sachet or scent-bag."

"Really you should revise Milton," murmured the land baron,
carelessly, his interest quite gone. "But I must be moving on." And he
arose. "Good evening."

"Good night!" said Straws, going to the door after his departing
guest. "Can you see your way down? Look out for the turn! And don't
depend too much on the bannisters--they're rather shaky. Well, he's
gone!" Returning once more to the room. "We're coming up in the world,
my dear, when such fashionable callers visit us! What do you think of
him?"

"He is very--handsome!" replied the child.

"Oh, the vanity of the sex! Is he--is he handsomer than I?"

"Are you--handsome?" she asked.

"Eh? Don't you think so?"

"No-o," she cried, in a passion of distressed truthfulness.

"Thank you, my dear! What a flattering creature you'll become, if you
keep on as you've begun! How you'll wheedle the men, to be sure!"

"But mustn't I say what I think?"

"Always! I'm a bad adviser! Think of bringing up a young person,
especially a girl, to speak the truth! What a time she'll have!"

"But I couldn't do anything else!" she continued, with absorbing and
painful anxiety.

"Don't, then! I'm instructing you to your destruction, but--don't! I'm
a philosopher in the School for Making Simpletons. What will you do
when you go out into the broad world with truth for your banner and
your heart on your sleeve?"

"How could I have my heart on my sleeve?" asked Celestina.

"Because you couldn't help it!"

"Really and truly on my sleeve?"

"Really and truly!" he affirmed, gravely.

"How funny!" answered the girl.

"No; tragic! But what shall we do now, Celestina?"

"Wash the dishes," said the child, practically.

"But, my dear, we won't need them until to-morrow," expostulated the
poet. "Precipitancy is a bad fault. Now, if you had proposed a little
music, or a fairy tale--"

"Oh, I could wash them while you played, or told me a story,"
suggested the child, eagerly.

"That isn't such a bad idea," commented Straws, reflectively.

"Then you will let me?" she asked.

"Go ahead!" said the bard, and he reached for the whistle.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SWEETE