in the most venemous manner.  Daisy Estelle left the bunch once and made a coy bid for the notice of Mr. D. by snatching his cap and running merrily off with it about six feet.  If there was any one in the world—­except Hetty—­could make a man hate the idea of riding pants for women, she was it.  I could see the cold, flinty look come into his eyes as he turned away from her to Hetty with the pitcher of lemonade.  And then Beryl Mae Macomber, she gets over close enough for Mr. D. to hear it, and says conditions is made very inharmonious at home for a girl of her temperament, and she’s just liable any minute to chuck everything and either take up literary work or go into the movies, she don’t know which and don’t care—­all kind of desperate so Mr. D. will feel alarmed about a beautiful young thing like that out in the world alone and unprotected and at the mercy of every designing scoundrel.  But I don’t think Mr. D. hears a word of it, he’s so intently listening to Hetty who says here in this beautiful mountain glade where all is peace how one can’t scarcely believe that there is any evil in the world anywhere, and what a difference it does make when one comes to see life truly.  Then she crossed and recrossed her silken ankles, slightly adjusted her daring tan skirt, and raised her eyes wistfully to the treetops, and I bet there wasn’t a man there didn’t feel that she belonged in the home circle with the little ones gathered about, telling ’em an awfully exciting story about the naughty, naughty, bad little white kitten and the ball of mamma’s yarn.

“Yes, sir; Hetty was as much of a revelation to me in one way as she would of been to that party in another if I hadn’t saved her from it.  She must have had the correct female instinct all these years, only no one had ever started her before on a track where there was no other entries.  With those other girls dressed like she was Hetty would of been leaning over some one’s shoulder to fork up her own sandwiches, and no one taking hardly any notice whether she’d had some of the hot coffee or whether she hadn’t.  And the looks she got throughout the afternoon!  Say, I wouldn’t of trusted that girl at the edge of a cliff with a single pair of those No. 9872’s anywhere near.

“After the lunch things was packed up there was faint attempts at fun and frolic with songs and chorus—­Riley Hardin has a magnificent bass voice at times and Mac Gordon and Charlie Dickman and Roth Hyde wouldn’t be so bad if they’d let these Turkish cigarettes alone—­and the boys got together and sung some of their good old business-college songs, with the girls coming in while they murdered Hetty with their beautiful eyes.  But Hetty and Mr. D. sort of withdrew from the noisy enjoyment and talked about the serious aspects of life and how one could get along almost any place if only they had their favourite authors.  And Mr. D. says doesn’t she sing at all, and she says, Oh! in a way; that her voice has a certain parlour