al in his inside
pocket. As soon as this was open, Uncle George and Mr. Ross became
very gay indeed, and Rollo, catching the spirit of the evening, joined
merrily in the conversation. Later in the evening they met several
friends at other tables, with whom they danced and thoroughly enjoyed
themselves.

The sky in the east was a pale blue-green when Rollo entered the door
of the apartment. Jonas, who kept to his country hours, was just
rising.

"Good-morning," said Jonas.

"Good-night," said Rollo.

It was but the work of a moment to undress and leap into bed. But
before he did so Rollo knelt for a moment and asked a blessing--for
Uncle George.

ROLLO AMONG THE ARTISTS

OUR LITTLE FRIEND VISITS GREENWICH VILLAGE AND MEETS
A SCULPTOR, A POETESS, AND A PAINTER

You will remember that I have spoken in a previous story of the
beautiful clam-shell which Rollo possessed, and which he admired very
much. It was a gift from his Uncle George, and on it was painted a
picture of a curving beach, a light-house, and a small yacht. Below
the picture was the title, "Souvenir of Atlantic City."

One day Rollo was sitting on his little cricket, holding up the shell
to the light, and marvelling at the change this made in the colours.
His mother was busily engaged knitting washcloths for the missionary
box which was to be sent to the natives of the Filbert Islands; for
though she had moved to the city, Rollo's mother did not forget her
duties toward Dr. Ordway, the minister at home, and through him, to
the heathen children in the Filbert Islands.

"Do you know, Mother," said Rollo, "I believe that the man who painted
this clam-shell was perhaps the greatest artist in the world. I have
looked all through the vast collection at the Metropolitan Museum, and
I do not find the mate to my clam anywhere."

"Is it so?" said his mother. "You seem very much interested in
artistic things. I remember that years ago I too enjoyed the fine
arts. You may recall the portrait of a kitten which I painted on the
red plush sofa-cushions at home."

"Indeed I do!" cried Rollo. "It was most artistic. Heigh-ho! I wish I
was an artist!"

Just as he said these words, as if in answer to his wish, his Uncle
George opened the door. "What is that?" he said. "You wish you were
an artist? What kind of an artist do you wish to be?"

Rollo was puzzled. "What kind?" he repeated. "What kinds are there?"

"Many," said his Uncle George. "But perh