hand down the front of his linen blouse.

"I say, Molly, look at the frog I bringed you!" he exclaimed as he came
close under the sill, which is not high from the ground. "If you put
your face down to the mud and sing something to 'em, they'll come out of
their holes. A beetle comed, too, but I couldn't ketch 'em both. Lift me
up, and I can put him in the waterglass on your table." He held up one
muddy hand to me, and promptly I lifted him up into my arms. From the
embrace in which he and the frog and I indulged my lace and cambric came
out much the worse.

"That was a lovely song you sang about 'Molly darling,' Billy," I said.
"Where did you hear it?"

"That's a good frog-song, Molly, and I believe I can git a squirrel with
it, too, if I sing it quite low." He began to squirm out of my arms
toward the table and the glass.

"Who taught it to you, sugar-sweet?" I persisted as I poured water in on
the frog under his direction.

"Nobody taught it to me. Father sings it to me when Tilly, nurse, nor
you aren't there to put me to bed. He don't know no good songs like
'Black-eyed Susan' or 'Little Boy Blue.' I go to sleep quick 'cause he
makes me feel tired with his slow tune what's only good for frogs and
things. Get a piece of cloth to tie over the top of the glass, Molly,
quick!"

I found some, and I don't know why my hand trembled as I handed it to
Billy. As soon as he got it he climbed out of the window, glass, frog
and all, and I saw him and the old setter go down the garden walk
together in pursuit of the desired squirrel, I suppose. I closed the
blinds and drew the curtains again and flung myself on my pillow.
Something warm and sweet seemed to be sweeping over me in great waves,
and I felt young and close up to some sort of big world-good. It was
delicious, and I don't know how long I would have stayed there just
feeling it if Jane hadn't brought in my letter.

He had written from London, and it was many pages of wonderful things
all flavoured with me. He told me about Miss Clinton and what good
friends they were, and how much he hoped she would be in Hillsboro when
he got here. He said that a great many of her dainty ways reminded him
of his "own slip of a girl," especially the turn of her head like a
"flower on its stem." At that I got right out of bed like a jack jumping
out of a box and looked at myself in the mirror.

There is one exercise here on page twenty that I hate worst of all. You
screw up your