“Vile Things!” she said.

Her mother, sewing beside another window of the room, looked up inquiringly.

“What are, Florence?”

“Cousin Herbert and that nasty little Henry Rooter.”

“Are you watching them again?” her mother asked.

“Yes, I am,” said Florence; and added tartly, “Not because I care to, but merely to amuse myself at their expense.”

Mrs. Atwater murmured, “Couldn’t you find some other way to amuse yourself, Florence?”

“I don’t call this amusement,” the inconsistent girl responded, not without chagrin.  “Think I’d spend all my days starin’ at Herbert Illingsworth Atwater, Junior, and that nasty little Henry Rooter, and call it amusement?”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Why do I do what, mamma?” Florence inquired, as in despair of Mrs. Atwater’s ever learning to put things clearly.

“Why do you ‘spend all your days’ watching them?  You don’t seem able to keep away from the window, and it appears to make you irritable.  I should think if they wouldn’t let you play with them you’d be too proud——­”

“Oh, good heavens, mamma!”

“Don’t use such expressions, Florence, please.”

“Well,” said Florence, “I got to use some expression when you accuse me of wantin’ to ‘play’ with those two vile things!  My goodness mercy, mamma, I don’t want to ‘play’ with ’em!  I’m more than four years old, I guess; though you don’t ever seem willing to give me credit for it.  I don’t haf to ‘play’ all the time, mamma:  and anyway, Herbert and that nasty little Henry Rooter aren’t playing, either.”

“Aren’t they?” Mrs. Atwater inquired.  “I thought the other day you said you wanted them to let you play with them at being a newspaper reporter or editor or something like that, and they were rude and told you to go away.  Wasn’t that it?”

Florence sighed.  “No, mamma, it cert’nly wasn’t.”

“They weren’t rude to you?”

“Yes, they cert’nly were!”

“Well, then——­”

“Mamma, can’t you understand?” Florence turned from the window to beseech Mrs. Atwater’s concentration upon the matter.  “It isn’t ‘playing’!  I didn’t want to ‘play’ being a reporter; they ain’t ’playing’——­”

“Aren’t playing, Florence.”

“Yes’m.  They’re not.  Herbert’s got a real printing-press; Uncle Joseph gave it to him.  It’s a real one, mamma, can’t you understand?”

“I’ll try,” said Mrs. Atwater.  “You mustn’t get so excited about it, Florence.”

“I’m not!” Florence returned vehemently.  “I guess it’d take more than those two vile things and their old printing-press to get me excited! I don’t care what they do; it’s far less than nothing to me!  All I wish is they’d fall off the fence and break their vile ole necks!”

With this manifestation of impersonal calmness, she turned again to the window; but her mother protested.  “Do quit watching those foolish boys; you mustn’t let them upset you so by their playing.”