"You can come in," said Mollie. "Whistlebinkie and I are all dressed."
And the little girl opened the door and the Unwiseman entered. He carried his beaver hat in both hands, as though it were a pail without a handle, and over the top of it he had spread a copy of the morning's paper.
"It's just the finest fog ever," he cried as he came in. "Real thick. I thought you'd like to have some, so I went out on the sidewalk and got a hat full of it for you."
Mollie and Whistlebinkie gathered about the old gentleman as he removed the newspaper from the top of his hat, and gazed into it.
"I do-see-anthing," whistled Whistlebinkie.
"You don't?" cried the Unwiseman. "Why it's chock full of fog. You can see it can't you Mollie?" he added anxiously, for to tell the truth the hat did seem to be pretty empty.
Mollie tried hard and was able to convince herself that she could see just a tiny bit of it and acted accordingly.
"Isn't it beautiful!" she ejaculated, as if filled with admiration for the contents of the Unwiseman's hat. "I don't think I ever saw any just like it before—did you, Mr. Me?"
"No," said the Unwiseman much pleased, "I don't think I ever did—it's so delicate and—er—steamy, eh? And there's miles of it outdoors and the Robert down on the corner says we're welcome to all we want of it. I didn't like to take it without asking, you know."
"Of course not," said Mollie, glancing into the hat again.