"I'm afraid you're not very much in earnest," he said. "You surely are
not frightened by a trifle like that?" Mollie looked up imploringly.

"Must I?" she asked.

"Well," he answered, her earnestness making him fear that she would
actually appear publicly in masculine array, "I don't know that it is
necessary at present. A few days wont matter; and, after a while, it
will seem to you the natural way to dress."

He was so faithful that evening in reminding her of her short-comings
that their _tête-à-tête_ over the little table in the ice-cream
saloon, which usually was so cosey and delightful, was quite spoiled.
She went to sleep regretting that she had taken Mr. John into her
confidence and made it necessary for him to treat her as a boy.

She did not see him again for several days: and meanwhile she had
taken her lessons in book-keeping, practiced the writing hours on
heavy masculine strokes, learned to walk without dancing little
whirligigs on her tiptoes every other minute, and made some progress
in the art of whistling. She felt that she had done much to earn his
commendation, and was anxious for a meeting.

On the way home from school, one afternoon, she saw his sister's baby
at the window--the roundest, fattest, whitest and sweetest of all the
babies that had taken up an abode in Mollie's heart, where babies
innumerable were enshrined. There it was, being danced in somebody's
hands before the window, and reaching out its ten dear little fingers
to beckon her in.