In another moment the pilot-engine had stopped, and she had clasped her darling in her arms—alive—unhurt—and was covering him with kisses, while thankful tears ran down her cheeks.
It was left to Hetty Saunders to stoop down and stroke Boxer's motionless figure, and in that touch to learn how the dear doggie had lost his life for his little master.
IT WAS ALL THOSE HORRID BELLOWS!
A STORY TOLD BY A LITTLE GIRL.
heard Dick—he's my biggest brother—learning his "Rep" the other day. I don't quite know what "Rep" is; but he was saying some words over and over again, and some of them stuck in my head. I can remember them now.
I don't often remember things; but that is because I've got a head like a sieve—nurse says so.
"What's in a name?" he read out of the book—and then something about a rose smelling sweet. That part doesn't matter.
If Dick had asked me "What's in a name?" I could have told him quite well. But Dick didn't ask me, and so I will tell you instead. I think there's a great deal in a name—at least, in a nickname. There are all kinds of spiteful little prickles that hurt ever so much more than others, because they stick in our feelings.