"My papa does; I heard him. My mamma puts soap in my mouf, when I do it,"
he added, with an artless frankness which appeared to be characteristic
of him. Then abruptly he changed the subject. "Ve cook has gone, and
mamma made such a funny pudding, last night," he announced. "It stuck and
broke ve dish to get it out. Good-bye. Vis is where I live." And he
clattered up the steps and vanished, hoop and all, through the front
doorway, leaving the stranger to marvel at the precocity of western
children and at the complexity of their vocabularies.

A week later, they met again, this time however not by accident. The
young man had tried meanwhile to find out something about the child; but
his sister whose guest he was, had moved to Helena only a month before,
and she could furnish no clue to the mystery. His visit was proving a
dull one; Mac had been vastly entertaining, so, for some days, the
stranger had been watching in vain for another glimpse of the boy. At
length, his efforts were rewarded. Strolling past the brown house, one
morning, he became aware of a tiny figure sitting on the steps in the
bright sunshine and wrapped from head to foot in a plaid horse-blanket.

"Good-morning, Mac!" he called blithely.

"How do you do?" The voice was a shade more subdued, to-day.

"Well. What are you doing?"

"Nofing much." The minor key was still evident.

"Are you sick?"

"No; 'course not."