"And she can't talk plain! She lisps—truly she does!"
Was ever a girl so thick-headed as that sister of his!
"She puts her finger in her mouth! She can't talk plain!" Alas, my sisters, it was Helen's finger that toppled over Troy, and Diane de Poitiers stammered!
For two long months the little girl led him along the primrose way. The poor fellow thought it was the main road; he had yet to learn it was but a by-path. But the Little God was not through with him. That very night he reached the top of the wave.
He came down to breakfast rapt and quiet. He salted his oatmeal by mistake, and never knew the difference. His sister laughed derisively, and explained his folly to him as he swallowed the last spoonful, but he only smiled kindly at her. After his egg he spoke.
"I dreamed that it was dancing school. And I went. And I was the only fellow there. And what do you think? All the little girls were Cecilia!"
They gasped.
"You don't suppose he'll be a poet, do you? Or a genius, or anything?" his mother inquired anxiously.
"No!" his father returned. "I should say he was more likely to be a Mormon!"