But that evening there was a fair sky, one of the soft, deep skies that make imaginative little girls’ brains dizzy; and Mollie tramped down the gravel path to the gate and leaned over; then she soon nestled her head in her arms and looked up and lost herself.  Boyhood was far from her dreamy fancies, when they were scattered by a tweak at one of her cropped locks.

“What does this mean?” asked the voice of the neighbor over the fence.  “How came it to be done without my leave?”

“Don’t I look manly, Mr. John?” said Mollie.

“What does it mean?” said he, severely.

“That would be telling,” said Mollie.

“I intend that you shall tell me,” said he.

“Oh, it’s a secret!” said Mollie.

“All the better; we’ll keep it together.  Tell it.”

He was a grown-up man, nearer thirty than twenty years old, who stooped to take an interest in his neighbor’s little girl, and flattered himself that he was bringing her up in the way she should go.  It amused him in his leisure moments to try the experiment of rearing a girl to be as unlike as possible the girl of the period.

From mere force of habit, Mollie opened her mouth and poured out her heart to him.  He seemed quite impressed by the solemn confession.  Mollie studied his face closely while she was speaking, and saw nothing but a grave and earnest interest in her project.  She could not see deep enough to discover the indignation that was fuming over the loss of her pretty locks, and the purpose that was brewing to cure her of her folly.

“Don’t have any half-way work about it, Mollie,” said Mr. John.  “Do the thing thoroughly, if you undertake it.”  “Oh yes, indeed!” said Mollie.

“If you should need an occasional reminder, I will try and help you,” said he; “for of course it wont do to be off guard at all.  But now get your hat, and we’ll go for some ice-cream.  I know you need cooling off this warm evening.”

Mollie skipped about to run toward the house.

“Be careful of your steps,” he called; and she tramped as boyishly as she could.

“No, don’t take hold of my hand,” as she came back and slipped her fingers in his.  “Put your hands in your pockets.”

“I’ve only one pocket,” she answered meekly, putting her right hand in it.

“Difficulties at once, aren’t there?” said Mr. John.  “Your clothes want reforming, you see.  You’ll have to put on Bloomers.”

“Oh!” said Mollie.

“I’m afraid you’re not very much in earnest,” he said.  “You surely are not frightened by a trifle like that?” Mollie looked up imploringly.

“Must I?” she asked.

“Well,” he answered, her earnestness making him fear that she would actually appear publicly in masculine array, “I don’t know that it is necessary at present.  A few days wont matter; and, after a while, it will seem to you the natural way to dress.”