"Does she? That's nice. Just like I do!" said the little girl, in a
pleased voice. "Mr. Burns"--to the gruff clerk--"here is a dollar. Give
me some real nice roses, and two or three sweet pinks. The lady shall
have some flowers. Tell her I sent them."

"Who shall I say sent them?"

"Margie Harrison. Will she know me, think?"

"I guess not. But it's all the same. I shall tell her you are one of the
angels, any way. She knows about them, for she's told me ever so much
about them."

The little girl laughed, and gave him the flowers.

"Don't soil them with your grimy hands," she said, a little saucily; "and
when you get home--let's see, what's your name?"

"Archer Trevlyn."

"Why, what a nice name! Just like names in a storybook. I know some
elegant people by the name of Trevlyn. But they live in a big house, and
have flowers enough of their own. So they can't be your folks, can they?"

"No, they're not my folks," replied the boy, with a touch of bitterness
in his voice.

"Well, Archer when you get home, you wash your face, do! It's so dirty!"