given her
hair that curled in little ringlets when wet, and that waved in all the
right places when dry.

Just now it hung in damp, shining strands on either side of her face, so
that she looked most remarkably like one of those oval-faced, great-eyed,
red-lipped women that the old Italian artists were so fond of painting.

Below her, blazing in the sun, lay the great stone and iron city. Mary
Louise shook out her hair idly, with one hand, sniffed her parsley, shut
her eyes, threw back her head, and began to sing, beating time with her
heel against the soap box, and forgetting all about the letter that had
come that morning, stating that it was not from any lack of merit, etc.
She sang, and sniffed her parsley, and waggled her hair in the breeze,
and beat time, idly, with the heel of her little boot, when----

"Holy Cats!" exclaimed a man's voice. "What is this, anyway? A Coney
Island concession gone wrong?"

Mary Louise's eyes unclosed in a flash, and Mary Louise gazed upon an
irate-looking, youngish man, who wore shabby slippers, and no collar with
a full dress air.

"I presume that you are the janitor's beautiful daughter," growled the
collarless man.

"Well, not precisely," answered Mary Louise, sweetly. "Are you the
scrub-lady's stalwart son?"

"Ha!" exploded the man. "But then, all women look alike with their hair
down. I ask your pardon, though."

"Not at all," replied Mary Louise. "For that matter, all men look like
picked chickens with their collars off."

At that the collarless man, who until now had been standing on the top
step that led up to the roof, came slowly forward, stepped languidly over
a skylight or two, draped his handkerchief over a convenient chimney and
sat down, hugging his long, lean legs to him.

"Nice up here, isn't it?" he remarked.

"It was," said Mary Louise.

"Ha!" exploded he, again. Then, "Where's your mirror?" he demanded.

"Mirror?" echoed Mary Louise.

"Certainly. You have the hair, the comb, the attitude, and the general
Lorelei effect. Also your singing lured me to your shores."

"You didn't look lured," retorted Mary Louise. "You looked lurid."

"What's that stuff in your hand?" next demanded he. He really was a most
astonishingly rude young man.

"Parsley."

"Parsley!" shouted he, much as Charlie had done. "Well, what the----"

"Back home," elucidated Mary Louise once more, patiently, "after you've
washed your hair you dry it in the back ya