ind of an eye was.

"You look through your heart with it," vaguely. "I don't understand
just how for your eyes are here," she touched her face, "and your
heart's here," and her hand tapped her small chest. "But that's what
daddy said. He called it the friendly eye. Being friendly to people,
he said, was as if you had a candle in your heart and the light shines
through your eyes. Oh, Mrs. Schuneman, I do believe Germania is going
to like it here." For Germania was twittering as if she did find her
new home to her liking.

They had scarcely transferred Germania from the wooden cage to the
shining brass one and hung it in the window when Miss Lottie Schuneman
came in. Mary Rose looked at her eagerly. Could she be the enchanted
princess Mr. Jerry had spoken of? But Miss Lottie was short and plump
like her mother and her face was round and rosy. She did not bear the
faintest resemblance to any princess Mary Rose had ever read of. It
was disappointing.

"What have you there?" Miss Lottie asked at once. "You can't have pets
in this flat, you know."

"You can have canary birds," Mary Rose told her quickly. "Uncle Larry
said the law never spoke of them."

"Uncle Larry said that, did he?" Miss Lottie began but her mother broke
in with an eagerness that was very different from the querulous way in
which she usually spoke:

"I've got to have something alive here to keep me company. You don't
know how lonesome it is for a woman to have nothing to do when she's
been as busy as I was. There isn't anyone for me to talk to but Mina,
and she's paid to work, not to listen. You and Louise bought a
phonograph. I guess I can have a bird if I want one."

"My word!" Miss Lottie put her hands on her hips and stared at her
mother. She laughed softly, indulgently. "Sure, you can have a bird
if you want one. But don't let it wake me up mornings."

"Wouldn't you just as soon be wakened by a bird singing as a steam
radiator sizzling?" asked Mary Rose. "Unless you live all by yourself
on a desert island you've got to be wakened by some kind of a noise. I
think a bird singing is just about the most beautiful noise that ever
was."

"So do I," agreed Mrs. Schuneman. "And you needn't worry, Lottie
Schuneman. I don't complain of your phonograph nights, I leave that to
Mr. Wells, and you needn't find fault with my bird mornings."

"I'm not finding fault, far be it from me; only when Mr. Wells sends
down word that your