met four
times--I remember them all. (_Aside._) I've been a beast to him. Mrs.
Orton shan't have him to hurt. And Millicent---- All women are cats!

MR. JARVIS--So do I. The first time you were nice to me, and the
second time you were nice----

MISS PAYSLEY--Because of Millicent.

MR. JARVIS--And the third time--you snubbed me. I suppose that was
because of Millicent, too.

MISS PAYSLEY (_aside_)--It was because of Mrs. Orton. (_Aloud, with
conviction and blushing._) And to-night I've been--simply horrid.

MR. JARVIS--To-night you've told me more of my fortune than you've any
idea. (_Aside._) She's adorable when she blushes!

MISS PAYSLEY (_still red_)--I've been an impertinent, meddling thing!

MR. JARVIS--You've taught me a great deal. I'm going to follow my good
impulses to the end--beginning now. So please look quickly in your own
hand and tell me if a man with a character like a layer cake has a
great influence on your life?

MISS PAYSLEY--I told you you followed the line of least resistance.

THE BABY'S CURLS

By MARGARET HOUSTON

A little skein of tangled floss they lie,
(You always said they should have been a girl's.)
The tears will come--you cannot quite tell why--
They fall unheeded on that mass--his curls.
Poor little silken skein, so dear to you.
"'Twere better short," the wiser father said,
"He's getting older now."--Alas, how true!
And yet you wonder where the years have fled.

"'Twere better short----" the while your fond heart yearned
To keep them still, reluctant standing by,
You saw your little angel, earthward turned,
Yet all unknowing, lay his halo by.
Soft little threads! They held you with such strength!
You knew the way each wanton ringlet fell,
You knew each shining tendril's golden length,
How oft they've tangled, only you can tell.

In dusky twilight shadows, oh, how oft
You've seen their light along your shoulder lie.
You leaned your cheek to touch the masses soft,
The while you crooned some drowsy lullaby.
How often when the sun was dawning red
You bent above him in the early ray,
And from that glory round the baby head
You drew your light for all the weary day.

And now--you start--the front door gives a slam--
The hall resounds with little, hurrying feet,
He climbs upon your knee--the wee, shorn lamb,--
And dries your tears with kisses, warm and sweet.
You fold your sorrow