r that "question" with absolutely no conception of
what the whole thing was about.

One day, it was during the last of November, she sat before the fire in
the governess' room feeling especially contented and placidly happy.
Miss Blake, safely ensconced among her cushions, was cozily sipping a
cup of bouillon.

The room was very still.

Suddenly Nan jumped to her feet, and, clasping her hands high over her
head, said, with a luxurious sort of yawn:

"Oh--my! How I'm liking it nowadays. Things are so sort of sweet and
cozy. Do you s'pose it's too good to last? Do you s'pose it has
anything to do with my trying to be good and not letting my 'angry
passions rise'?"

The governess nodded her head, but made no other reply and after an
instant Nan slipped to the floor again, and, sitting Turk-fashion
beside her companion's knee, considered how possible it would have been
for Miss Blake to have taken that occasion to lecture her on the past
error of her ways. But she had learned that it was not the governess'
way to preach. That nod was as eloquent as a sermon to Nan, and she
understood it perfectly.

"Shall I read you something from 'The Tribune'?" she asked, after a
moment's musing. And she took up the paper and began searching for the
editorial page. When she had found it she set about reading the first
leader that came to hand, quite regardless of whether it would prove
interesting to her auditor or not. The fact that it was unintelligible
to her seemed a sort of guarantee, in her mind, that it would be
interesting to Miss Blake. She read on and on until both her breath
and the column itself came to a stop.

"You poor child," said the governess affectionately. "Don't read
another word of that. How stupid it must be for you. Here, take this
book of dear Mary Wilkins. We can both of us understand her, and she
will do us both good. You need not victimize yourself a moment longer,
dear Nannie."

But Nan, radiant with good humor, felt a sort of glory in just such
self-victimizing. She searched through the page for further
unintelligible text.

All at once she paused and read a few lines to herself. Then she burst
into a laugh.

"Here's something about a man who has such a funny name. It's James
Murty, alias Dan Divver, alias Shaughnessy. What a last
name--Shaughnessy! And why was he called alias twice over, Miss Blake?
I didn't know one could have the same name more than once. It seems
awfull