Poor John Robert Charles often thought his life was a burden on account of his name and his mother's great virtue of cleanliness. He was not allowed to play with the boys. Ball and marbles and hopscotch were tabooed. He could walk up and down and do errands, and that with going to school was surely enough. Then she exaggerated him. His white collars were always broader; if trousers were a little wide, his were regular sailor's. She bought his Sunday suit to grow into, so by the second winter it just fitted him. His every-day clothes she made. And oh, she cut his hair! It is very hard to be the daughter of such a mother, a rigid, uncompromising woman with no sense of the fitness of things, of harmony or beauty, or indulgence in little fancies that are so much to a child. Quite as hard to be the son. Charles had everything needful to keep him warm, in good health, and books for study. When it rained hard he had six cents to ride in the omnibus. And he did have the cleanest house, and the cleanest clothes, and, his mother thought, a very nice time. Luckily there were no boys this end of the block. They were quite grown up, or little children. But there were enough below to torment the poor lad. In the summer when the charcoal man went by they would sing out: "John Robert Charles, what did you have for breakfast?" and the refrain would be, "Charcoal." "What did you have for dinner?" "Charcoal." "How do you keep so clean?" "Charcoal." Early this autumn the boy had made a protest. Day after day he said it over to himself until he thought he had sufficient courage. "Mother, why don't you call me just Charles, as my father does?" His mother's surprise almost withered him. "Because," when she had found her breath, "John is after _my_ father, who was an excellent man, and Robert was for the only brother I ever had, and Charles for your grandfather Reed. If you grow up as good as any of them you'll have no occasion to find fault with your name." Yet boys at school called him Bob, and he really did enjoy it. He went to a very nice, select school where there were only twenty boys. He had made quite an acquaintance with the Dean girls. He could play house, and they had such delightful books to read. "And the party must be some time next week. Thursday, mother thought, would be convenient. I should give the invitations out on Monday," Josie said. "And, oh, try to coax Jim." The cousins came. Hanny saw them on Sunday, and on Monday two little girls went round with a pretty basket and left pale-green missives at the houses of friends. There was one for Ben also. "H-m-m," ejaculated Jim. "A baby party. Will they play with dolls?" "Oh, Jim! it's going to be a real party with refreshments. Of course there won't be dolls." "Washington pie and round hearts." The tears rushed to Hanny's eyes.