leaned upon the child’s shoulder, and mourned with him.  The Pennington boy did not comprehend it all; but as he looked politely away from his friends, he felt the moisture in his eyes.  He wiped it away quickly, glancing to see if his weakness had been detected.  The woman recovered in a few moments, and arose with the boy’s hand gripping hers warmly.  He had felt her tears through his thin clothing, and was conquered.

[Illustration:  She stroked his hand and snuggled closer to him.]

“Come on, Henry; we’re going now,” said Miss Morgan, and drew the lad up with her hand.

“Whur to?” asked Bud, who knew the answer instinctively.

“Home,” replied the little woman, who knew that the boy knew, and who was sure that he had consented.  “Our home—­yours and mine.”

The boy arose, still holding her hand, and looked toward the grave with the flowers strewn over it.  He gripped her hand tightly—­so tightly that it pained her—­and sobbed, as he faced away from her:  “O pop!”

Then they walked on in silence, till they came up with Piggy, who had gone a few steps ahead.  It was Bud who spoke first.  He said:  “You don’t live far from Piggy’s, do you, Miss Morgan?”

And Piggy Pennington pointed his finger at Bud’s dripping eyes and grinned, while Miss Morgan smiled happily at the clouds.

[Illustration:  Miss Morgan smiled happily at the clouds.]

“WHILE THE EVIL DAYS COME NOT”

THE RHYME OF MIGNONETTE

  When dandelions fleck the green,
    And plum-blooms scent the evening breeze,
    And robin’s songs throb through the trees;
  And when the year is raw thirteen,
    And Spring’s a gawky hoyden yet,
  The season mirrors in its mien
    And in its tom-boy etiquette,
    Maid Mignonette, my Mignonette.

  When bare-feet lisp along the path,
    And boys and jays go whistling by,
    And girls and thrushes coyly cry
  Their fine joys through the aftermath—­
    Then laid ghosts know their amulet
  Which fickle siren mem’ry hath;
    So laughing comes that sad coquette,
    Comes Mignonette,—­my Mignonette.

  The wild rose is a conjurer,
    It charms the heavy years away,
    Unshoes my feet and bids them stray
  O’er playgrounds where our temples were. 
    To some pale star I owe a debt
  For harboring the soul of her
    With whom I learned love’s alphabet—­
    With Mignonette, my Mignonette.

“While the Evil Days come not”

We duck through the court, reminded a bit by our feelings of our first love, who hadn’t the cleanest of faces, or the nicest of manners; but she takes her station in our memory because we were boys then, and the golden halo of youth is upon her.—­George Meredith.

What little things turn great events!  Tragedies