"I want to own up, Mother," said King, as Mrs. Maynard came into the room, just before dinner time.

"Well, King, what have you been doing now?"

Mrs. Maynard's face expressed a humorous sort of resignation, for she was accustomed to these confessions.

"Well, you see, Mothery, we had the Jinks Club here to-day."

King's voice was very wheedlesome, and he had his arm round his mother's neck, for he well knew her affection for her only son often overcame her duty of discipline.

"And the Jinksies cut up some awful piece of mischief,—is that it?"

"Yes, Mother; but it's a truly awful one this time, and I'm the one to blame."

"No, you're not!" broke in Marjorie; "at least, not entirely. I proposed the game."

"Well," said Mrs. Maynard, "before you quarrel for the honor of this dreadful deed, suppose you tell me what it is."

For answer, King dragged the big picture out from behind the sofa, and
Mrs. Maynard's smile changed to a look of real dismay.

"Oh, King!" she said; "that's your father's favorite engraving!"

"Yes'm, I know it. That's the awfullest part of it. But, Mother, it was an accident."

"Ah, yes, but an accident that ought not to have happened. It was an accident brought about by your own wrong-doing. What possessed you to take that great picture down from the wall, and why did you splash ink on it?"

So then all the children together told the whole story of the auction game.

"But it was lots of fun!" Marjorie wound up, with great enthusiasm.
"Delight is grand to play games with. She acts just like a grown-up lady.
And Flip Henderson is funny too."

"But Midget," said her mother, "I can't let you go on with this Jinks
Club of yours, if you're always going to spoil things."

"No, of course not. But, Mother, I don't think it will happen again. And anyway, next time we're going to meet at Delight's."

"That doesn't help matters any, my child. I'd rather you'd spoil my things than Mrs. Spencer's,—if spoiling must be done. Well, the case is too serious for me. I'll leave the whole matter to your father,—I hear him coming up the steps now."

Soon Mr. Maynard entered the room, and found his whole family grouped round the ruined picture.

"Wowly—wow-wow!" he exclaimed. "Has there been an earthquake? For nothing else could wreck my pet picture like that!"

"No, Father," said King; "it wasn't an earthquake. I did it,—mostly. We were playing auction, and my foot got tangled up in the picture wire, and the inkstand upset, and smashed the glass, and—and I'm awful sorry."

King was too big a boy to cry, but there was a lump in his throat, as he saw his father's look of real regret at the loss of his valued picture.

"Tell me all about it, son. Was it mischief?"

"I'm afraid it was. But we took all the things in the room to play auction with, and somehow I took that down from the wall without thinking. And, of course, I didn't know it was going to get broken."

"No, King; but if you had stopped to think, you would have known that it might get broken?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it would have been wiser and kinder to leave it upon the wall, out of harm's way?"

"Yes, Father; much better. I didn't think. Oh,—I know that's no excuse, but that's,—well, it's the reason."

"And a very poor reason, my boy. The worthwhile man is the man who thinks in time. Thinking afterward doesn't mend broken things,—or take out inkstains. Of course, the broken glass is a mere trifle, that could have been easily replaced. But the engraving itself is ruined by the ink."

"Couldn't it be restored?" asked King, hopefully. He was not quite certain what "restored" meant, but he knew his father had had it done to some pictures.

Mr. Maynard smiled. "No, King, a paper engraving cannot be restored. What is that number pasted on it for?"

"We numbered all the things, so as to make it like a real auction," said
Marjorie.

Mr. Maynard glanced round the room.

"You rascally children!" he cried; "if you haven't stuck papers on all the vases and bric-a-brac in the room! And on this tree-calf Tennyson, as I live! Oh, my little Maynards! Did anybody ever have such a brood as you?"

Mr. Maynard dropped his head in his hands in apparent despair, but the children caught the amused note in his voice, and the twinkle in his eye, as he glanced at his wife.

"Well, here you are!" he said, as he raised his head again, "for a punishment you must get all those numbers off without injury to the things they're pasted on. This will mean much care and patience, for you must not use water on books or anything that dampness will harm. Those must be picked off in tiny bits with a sharp penknife."

"Oh, we'll do it, Father!" cried Marjorie, "and we'll be just as careful!"

"Indeed you must. You've done enough havoc already. As to the picture, King, we'll say no more about it. You're too big a boy now to be punished; so we'll look upon it as a matter between man and man. I know you appreciate how deeply I regret the loss of that picture, and I well know how sorry you feel about it yourself. The incident is closed."

Mr. Maynard held out his hand to his son, and as King grasped it he felt that his father's manly attitude in the matter was a stronger reproof and a more efficacious lesson to him than any definite punishment could be.

After dinner the three children went to work to remove the pasted numbers.

A few, which were on glass vases, or porcelain, or metal ornaments, could be removed easily by soaking with a damp cloth; but most of them were on plaster casts, or polished wood, or fine book bindings and required the greatest care in handling.

When bed-time came the task was not half finished, and Marjorie's shoulders were aching from close application to the work.

"Sorry for you, kiddies," said Mr. Maynard, as they started for bed, "but if you dance, you must pay the piper. Perhaps a few more evenings will finish the job, and then we'll forget all about it."

Mr. Maynard, though not harsh, was always firm, and the children well knew they had the work to do, and must stick patiently at it till it was finished.

"Good-night, Father," said King, "and thank you for your confidence in me. I'll try to deserve it hereafter."

"Good-night, my boy. We all have to learn by experience, and when you want my help, it's yours."

The straightforward glance that passed between father and son meant much to both, and King went off to bed, feeling that, if not quite a grown man, he was at least a child no longer in his father's estimation.

After the children had gone, Mr. Maynard picked out the most delicate or valuable of the "auction" goods, and began himself to remove the pasted numbers.

"Partly to help the kiddies," he said to his wife, "and partly because I know they'd spoil these things. It's all I can do to manage them successfully myself."

Next morning at breakfast Mrs. Maynard said; "Well, Midget, now you're at home again, what about starting back to school?"

"Oh, Mother!" said Marjorie, looking disconsolate. And then, for she did not want to be naughty about it, she added: "All right; I s'pose I must go, so I will. But as to-day's Friday I can wait till Monday, can't I?"

Mrs. Maynard smiled. "Yes, I think you may till Monday, if you want to.
But are you sure you want to?"

"'Deed I am sure!"

"And nothing would make you want to go to-day, instead of waiting till
Monday?"

"No, ma'am! no-thing!" and Midget actually pounded the table with her knife-handle, so emphatic was she.

"You tell her, Fred," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling at her husband.

"Well, Madcap Mopsy," said her father, "try to bear up under this new misfortune; your mother and I have planned a plan, and this is it. How would you like it, instead of going to school any more,—I mean to Miss Lawrence,—to go every day to lessons with Delight and Miss Hart?"

Marjorie sat still a minute, trying to take it in. It seemed too good to be true.

Then dropping her knife and fork, she left her chair and flew round to her father's place at table.

Seeing the whirlwind coming, Mr. Maynard pushed back his own chair just in time to receive a good-sized burden of delighted humanity that threw itself round his neck and squeezed him tight.

"Oh, Father, Father, Father! do you really mean it? Not go to school any more at all! And have lessons every day with that lovely Miss Hart, and my dear Delight? Oh, Father, you're such a duck!"

"There, there, my child! Don't strangle me, or I'll take it all back!"

"You can't now! You've said it! Oh, I'm so glad! Can I start to-day?"

"Oho!" said Mrs. Maynard; "who was it that said nothing could make her want to go to-day instead of Monday?"

Marjorie giggled. "But who could have dreamed you meant this?" she cried, leaving her father and flying to caress her mother. "Oh, Mumsie, won't it be lovely! Oh, I am so happy!"

"If not, you're a pretty good imitation of a happy little girl," said her father; "and now if you'll return to your place and finish your breakfast, we'll call it square."

"Square it is, then," said Marjorie, skipping back to her place; "Kit, did you ever hear of anything so lovely!"

"Never," said Kitty, "for you. I'd rather go to school and be with the girls."

"I didn't mind when Gladys was here, but I've hated it ever since I was alone. But to study with Miss Hart,—oh, goody! Is she willing, Mother?"

"Of course, I've discussed it with her and with Mrs. Spencer. Indeed, Mrs. Spencer proposed the plan herself, when I was over there yesterday. She and Miss Hart think it will be good for Delight to have some one with her. So, Midge, you must be a good girl, and not teach Delight all sorts of mischief."

"Oh, yes, Mother, I'll be so good you won't know me. Can I start to-day?"

"Yes, if you're sure you want to."

"Want to? I just guess I do!" and Midget danced upstairs to dress for "school."

The plan worked admirably. Miss Hart was not only a skilled teacher, but a most tactful and clever woman, and as she really loved her two little pupils, she taught them so pleasantly that they learned without drudgery.

As the clock hands neared nine every morning, there were no more long drawn sighs from Marjorie, but smiles and cheery good-byes, as the little girl gaily left the house and skipped across the street.

The daily association, too, brought her into closer friendship with
Delight, and the two girls became real chums. Their natures were so
different, that they reacted favorably on one another, and under Miss
Hart's gentle and wise guidance the two girls improved in every way.

It was one day in the very last part of February that Midge came home to find a letter for her on the hall table.

"From Gladys," she cried and tore it open.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "I didn't think! Miss Hart told me never to open a letter with my finger, but to wait till I could get a letter-opener. Well, it's too late now, I'll remember next time."

She looked ruefully at the untidy edges of the envelope, but pulled the letter out and began to read it.

"DEAR MARJORIE:

"I'm coming to see you, that is, if you want me to. Father has to go East, and he will leave me at your house while he goes to New York. I will get there on Friday and stay four days. I will be glad to see you again.

"Sincerely yours,

"GLADYS FULTON."

Marjorie smiled at the stiff formal letter, which was the sort Gladys always wrote, and then she went in search of her mother.

"Gladys is coming on Friday," she announced.

"That's very nice, my dear," said Mrs. Maynard; "you'll be so glad to see her again, won't you?"

"Yes," said Midget, but she said it slowly, and with a troubled look in her eyes.

"Well, what is it, dear? Tell Mother."

"I don't know exactly,—but somehow I'm not so awfully pleased to have Gladys come. You see, she may not like Delight, and I want them to like each other."

"Why do you want them to?"

"Why do I? Mother, what a funny question! Why, I want them to like each other because I like them both."

"But you don't seem anxious lest Delight won't like Gladys."

"Oh, of course she'll like her! Delight is so sweet and amiable, she'd like anybody that I like. But Gladys is,—well,—touchy."

"Which do you care more for, dearie?"

"Mothery, that's just what bothers me I'm getting to like Delight better and better. And that doesn't seem fair to Gladys, for she's my old friend, and I wouldn't be unloyal to her for anything. So you see, I don't know which I like best."

"Well, Marjorie, I'll tell you. In the first place, you mustn't take it so seriously. Friendships among children are very apt to change when one moves away and another comes. Now both these little girls are your good friends, but it stands to reason that the one you're with every day should be nearer and dearer than one who lives thousands of miles away. So I want you to enjoy Delight's friendship, and consider her your dearest friend, if you choose, without feeling that you are disloyal to Gladys."

"Could I, Mother?"

"Certainly, dear. That is all quite right. Now, when Gladys comes, for a few days, you must devote yourself especially to her, as she will be your house-guest; and if she and Delight aren't entirely congenial, then you must exclude Delight while Gladys is here. You may not like to do this, and it may not be necessary, but if it is, then devote yourself to Gladys' pleasure and preferences, because it is your duty. To be a good hostess is an important lesson for any girl or woman to learn, and you are not too young to begin."

"Shall I tell Delight I'm going to do this?"

"Not before Gladys comes. They may admire each other immensely; then there will be no occasion to mention it. When is Gladys coming?"

"On Friday. That's only three days off."

"Then we must begin to plan a little for her pleasures. As she will only be here four days, we can't do very much. Suppose we have a little party Saturday afternoon, then she can meet all her Rockwell friends."

"Yes, that will be lovely. And I do hope she and Delight will like each other."

"Why of course they will, Midget. There's no reason why they shouldn't."