“Baby Willie is in the back-yard in his carriage and Johnny and Harry are playing fooneral with him,” said she, gravely.

“But that wasn’t all; don’t cheat me, little girl!” frowned the big freckled-faced man.

“No!  I wasn’t going to—­Tommy—­he’s in the yard round the corner there with the big boys—­he’s ’leven—­he’s my greatest brother—­he’s a drefful wicked boy—­” Molly was going on with the bean-story very likely, but at that moment the funeral procession of a baby carriage and two followers filed up.

The great man darted forward, seized three-year-old Johnny and Harry in his arms, stuffed one head-first, the other legs-first, into the monstrous pack.

The one that went in head-first had his fat legs left dangling; the one that went in legs-first, his head sticking out.

The baby went into one of his deep pockets where his screams were stifled.

This was the work of a second and the man hurried out of sight, saying cheerily over his shoulder to Molly, “I’ll bring round the little sister to-morrow.”

Molly had so many things to take her attention that she had no time to be conscience-smitten.

There was her odorous handkerchief; her sash, which she hung over her arm; her pockets full of candy; under one arm the wonderful doll; under the other, the live kitten.

But in a half hour the doll had ceased to charm; she couldn’t tie the sash herself; the “perfoomery” had evaporated; the kitten had scratched her hand because Molly had picked her up by the tail; only a few chocolate caramels were left, and, I suspect that all seemed as “vanity of vanities” to poor Molly.  Just then Fred, her favorite and only remaining brother, came dancing down the path and stopped, amazed before Molly’s display of wealth.

[Illustration:  SHE COULDN’T SPARE FREDDIE.]

Somehow the “choc’late ca’amels” tasted sweeter again when she shared them with Fred, and she couldn’t help saying, “Ain’t they boolicious, Freddie?”

She hadn’t time to tell Freddie how she came possessed of all her treasures, for there again appeared at the gate the same great man, with his cry, “Brother for sale!”

“No, no!” screamed Molly, throwing her two fat arms round Fred, at the same time crying, “Run away Freddie, quick! run away.”

Now considering that Fred had the doll and the kitten in his lap, and his sister’s arms around his neck, it wasn’t strange that the little fellow didn’t run.

“I’ll give you ten dollars for this boy,” said the great man, unwinding Molly’s arms, and picking fat Fred up, and thrusting him like a roll of cotton batting under his arm.

Molly screamed and—­and—­well—­she woke.

She hadn’t been swinging on the gate at all; there wasn’t any horrid, rusty-faced man standing by her; she had been asleep in school and dreaming.

But she couldn’t believe it; and with all Miss Winche’s kind coaxing, she wouldn’t lift her face from her desk, and would only sob, “I want my Freddie!  I want my Freddie!”