least not with what I call joy."

"What do you call joy?" asked Douglas.

"Being satisfied with your environment."

Douglas glanced at her, then at her surroundings, and looking into her
eyes laughed quizzically.

"But if it were different, I am perfectly confident that I should work out
joy from life," insisted Leslie. "It owes me joy! I'll have it, if I fight
for it!"

"Leslie! Leslie! Be careful! You are challenging Providence. Stronger men
than I have wrought chaos for their children," said a warning voice, as
her father came behind her chair.

"Chaos or no, still I'd put up my fight for joy, Daddy," laughed the girl.
"Only see, Preciousest!"

"One minute!" said her father, shaking hands with Douglas. "Now what is
it, Leslie? Oh, I do see!"

"Take my chair and make friends," said the girl.

Mr. Winton seated himself, then began examining and turning the basket.
"Indians?" he queried.

"Yes," said Douglas. "A particularly greasy squaw. I wish I might
truthfully report an artist's Indian of the Minnehaha type, but alack, it