ciples and blessings of total abstinence.

"Red ink, Andrea," her Uncle Jimmie had demanded, as the black-eyed
waiter bent over him, "and ginger ale for the offspring." Eleanor
giggled. It was fun to be with Uncle Jimmie in a restaurant again. He
always called for something new and unexpected when he spoke of her to
the waiter, and he was always what Albertina would consider "very
comical" when he talked to him. "But stay," he added holding up an
admonitory finger, "I think we'll give the little one _eau rougie_
this time. Wouldn't you like _eau rougie_, tinted water, Eleanor, the
way the French children drink it?"

Unsuspectingly she sipped the mixture of water and ice and sugar, and
"red ink" from the big brown glass bottle that the glowing waiter set
before them.

As the meal progressed Jimmie told her that the grated cheese was
sawdust and almost made her believe it. He showed her how to eat
spaghetti without cutting it and pointed out to her various Italian
examples of his object lesson; but she soon realized that in spite of
his efforts to entertain her, he was really very unhappy.

"I've borrowed all the money I can, Angelface," he confessed finally.
"Tomorrow's the last day of grace. If I don't land that job at the
Perkins agency I'll have to give in and tell Peter and David, or wire
Dad."

"You could get some other kind of a job," Eleanor said; "plumbing or
clerking or something." On Cape Cod the plumber and the grocer's clerk
lost no caste because of their calling. "Couldn't you?"

"I _could_ so demean myself, and I will. I'll be a chauffeur, I can
run a car all right; but the fact remains that by to-morrow
something's got to happen, or I've got to own up to the bunch."

Eleanor's heart sank. She tried hard to think of something to comfort
him but she could not. Jimmie mixed her more _eau rougie_ and she
drank it. He poured a full glass, undiluted, for himself, and held it
up to the light.

"Well, here's to crime, daughter," he said. "Long may it wave, and us
with it."

"That isn't really red ink, is it?" she asked. "It's an awfully pretty
color--like grape juice."

"It is grape juice, my child, if we don't inquire too closely into the
matter. The Italians are like the French in the guide book, 'fond of
dancing and light wines.' This is one of the light wines they are fond
of.--Hello, do you feel sick, child? You're white as a ghost. It's the
air. As soon as I can get hold of that sacrificed waite