she strove to appear the
contrary.

"Why, good-evening, dear," she began. "Are you home?"

"No, I'm not," he said roughly. "Can't you see?"

"I thought I recognized you," she replied, forcing a little laugh.

He made no reply.

"Did you bring the sugar, dear?" she asked presently.

"No, I didn't."

She was depending on this for preserving, and she wanted to ask why he
failed, but did not quite dare.

"Can you bring it to-morrow?" she inquired after an awkward pause.

"I don't know," he said gruffly.

Again she hesitated. She was very gentle and naturally timid, and his
treatment had increased the latter tendency. At last she mustered
strength to say:

"I need it very much."

There was no reply, and directly she left the room.

Now, not one iota of this domestic scene was lost upon Nannie. From
the day she had listened to that story told by Constance Chance to her
young friend (Mrs. Earnest's oldest child) she had been looking about
her sharply. The first direction of eyes newly opened is outward. We
see our neighbors--see that instead of performing their part like men
they are skulking through life--men as churls, snarling, or it may be
stalking, automaton fashion; men as sticks, walking, and we hasten to
correct their errors. Our own correction comes afterward, if at all,
for as the poet has told us, it were easier to tell twenty what were
good to be done than to be one of the twenty to do it.

Nannie fastened her eyes upon Mr. Earnest, but as he was now absorbed
in his paper he lost the benefit of her fierce glances.

"Why don't you tell?" urged Mamie, who did not relish this
interruption to her story.

"Well, once there lived a horrid pig."

"Why, that's not it," said the child pettishly. "It's a kitty."

"No, it's a pig," reiterated Nannie with emphasis. "A horrid, selfish
pig!"

"I don't like that," pouted Mamie. "You begin about a kitty, and just
as I'm getting interested in her you go off on a pig."

"Well, then, once there was a big, horrid cat."

"You said a dear little kitty," cried Mamie.

"He was a dear little kitty once, I suppose, but he grew up to be a
big selfish, glowering, tortoise-shell tomcat."

"Was there any mama kitty?" asked Mamie, who yearned for a gentle
element in the story.

"Yes, and she was lovely, so unselfish and kind, but the big, ugly one
bullied her all the time till she was afraid to call her soul her
own."

"Did they have any teeny weeny kitties?" a