On the afternoon that Mrs. Watson had received the uplifting talk on motherhood, and Mrs. Francis had entered it in the little red book, Pearlie Watson, aged twelve, was keeping the house, as she did six days in the week.  The day was too cold for even Jimmy to be out, and so all except the three eldest boys were in the kitchen variously engaged.  Danny under promise of a story was in the high chair submitting to a thorough going over with soap and water.  Patsey, looking up from his self-appointed task of brushing the legs of the stove with the hair-brush, loudly demanded that the story should begin at once.

“Story, is it?” cried Pearlie in her wrath, as she took the hair-brush from Patsey.  “What time have I to be thinkin’ of stories and you that full of badness.  My heart is bruck wid ye.”

“I’ll be good now,” Patsey said, penitently, sitting on the wood-box, and tenderly feeling his skinned nose.  “I got hurt to-day, mind that, Pearlie.”

“So ye did, poor bye,” said Pearlie, her wrath all gone, “and what will I tell yez about, my beauties?”

“The pink lady where Jimmy brings the milk,” said Patsey promptly.

“But it’s me that’s gettin’ combed,” wailed Danny.  “I should say what ye’r to tell, Pearlie.”

“True for ye,” said Pearlie, “Howld ye’r tongue, Patsey.  What will I tell about, honey?”

“What Patsey said’ll do” said Danny with an injured air, “and don’t forget the chockalut drops she had the day ma was there and say she sent three o’ them to me, and you can have one o’ them, Pearlie.”

“And don’t forget the big plate o’ potatoes and gravy and mate she gave the dog, and the cake she threw in the fire to get red of it,” said Mary. who was knitting a sock for Teddy.

“No, don’t tell that,” said Jimmy, “it always makes wee Bugsey cry.”

“Well,” began Pearlie, as she had done many times before.  “Once upon a time not very long ago, there lived a lovely pink lady in a big house painted red, with windies in ivery side of it, and a bell on the front dure, and a velvet carpet on the stair and—­”

“What’s a stair?’ asked Bugsey.

“It’s a lot of boxes piled up higher and higher, and nailed down tight so that ye can walk on them, and when ye get away up high, there is another house right farninst ye—­well anyway, there was a lovely pianny in the parlow, and flowers in the windies, and two yalla burds that sing as if their hearts wud break, and the windies had a border of coloured glass all around them, and long white curtings full of holes, but they like them all the better o’ that, for it shows they are owld and must ha’ been good to ha’ stood it so long.  Well. annyway. there was a little boy called Jimmie Watson”—­here all eyes were turned on Jimmy, who was sitting on the floor mending his moccasin with a piece of sinew.  “There was a little boy called Jimmy Watson who used to carry milk to the lady’s back dure,