"A philanthropist is one who loves man, dear, and who—"
"Then when a girl's engaged, is she a philanthropist?" broke in Cricket, with her glass of milk half raised. The others all laughed.
"She is, very often," said grandma.
"I know the man she is engaged to is called her financé, but I never knew she was called a philanthropist," went on Cricket, thoughtfully.
There was another shout.
"Fiancé, dear," said auntie, as soon as she could speak, "and the girl isn't often called a philanthropist, though she often is one."
"Dear me," sighed Cricket. "Words are very puzzling. They seem to be made to say what you don't think."
"Oftentimes, my little Talleyrand," said grandma.
After supper, Cricket ran up to see if George W. had made his appearance yet. A few moments later, the household, assembled on the front piazza, was startled by a crash and a scream in Cricket's voice. With one accord, everybody rushed up-stairs. The sounds seemed to come from Eunice's room. As they opened the door, a cloud of dust poured out, from a mass of plaster that lay on the floor, while from a hole in the ceiling a length of black-stockinged leg kicked wildly. Above, a pair of fists beat a tattoo on the floor, while Cricket called, loudly:
"For goodness' sake, somebody come and pull me up; I'm breaking my other leg off."