upon her; "it's to slip crickets under her feet to put her toes onter. I'll slip 'em all day. An' it's to wipe her specs, an' to say yes, no, an' to--"

"To be good," finished Caryl solemnly; "that comprehends the whole business."

"To be good," repeated the small nurse yet more solemnly, "an' to compren' the whole bus'ness; I will."

"You are a ridiculous child," cried Caryl impatiently; "I don't really suppose you are fit to be trusted, but then, it's the only thing to try."

Viny, having been duly elected to office, considered her honors settled, so she was little disturbed by any opinions that might be held concerning her. Therefore she squatted and wriggled in great delight, grinning at every word that fell from her young mistress' lips.

"You see, Viny," Caryl was saying, beginning on her confidence, "I've got an order to teach the little Grant girls how to paint, and if I can run down there two hours every morning, I'm to have twenty-five dollars, and Madam Grant is going to give it to me in advance; that is, after the first quarter. Think, Viny, TWENTY-FIVE dollars! That's what we want to move with into Heart's Delight!"

This was the upstairs southwest corner of a little cottage that for a year or more had been the desideratum of the young girl's highest hopes that had to wear themselves out in empty longings, the invalid's scanty exchequer only sufficing for doctor's bills and similar twelvemonth, along with several other broken-down lodgers whose slender means compelled them to call this place "home"--this place where never a bit of sunshine seemed to come; where even the birds hated to stop for a song as they flew merrily over the tree-tops. And no wonder. The trees were scraggy, loppy old things hanging down in dismal sweep over the leaky roof and damp walls. They had to stay--the lodgers, but the birds and the sunshine tossed off the whole responsibility of life in such a gloomy old home, and flitted to gayer quarters. But now, what if Heart's Delight could really be theirs!

"Yer goin' ter tell 'em how to paint dem tings yer daub?" broke in Viny, and snapping off this delightful thought.

"You shouldn't speak so, child," said Caryl with the greatest dignity; "it's very fine work, and you couldn't possibly understand it. It's art, Viny."

"Ho, ho!" laughed the small black figure, nowise impressed and cramming her stumpy fingers up to her mouth to keep 

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