“Why, Amy!” said Margaret, reproachfully, “I am shocked at your using such words. Where did a sweet little girl like you ever hear such bad words?” “Oh, Auntie Mard’ret, I know a dreat deal worse words than that,” said Amy, with her eyes opened very wide. “Why, if I was to tell you the words I’m thinkin’ of, why you’d jump up and wun out of the woom.” “Amy, I must insist upon your telling me,” said Margaret, feeling in duty bound to restrain her amusement, and administer the rebuke. “What words do you mean?” “Oh, Auntie Mard’ret,” said Amy, solemnly, “they’s jes’ is bad is they kin be--_awful_ words! I couldn’t never tell you.” Margaret insisted that she must be told, and after much reluctance on Amy’s part, and a demanded banishment of Ethel and Dee to the other end of the room, she put her arms around her cousin’s neck, and whispered in awe-struck, mysterious tones: “I was thinkin’ of _devil_ and _beast_.” Margaret caught the little creature in her arms and kissed her repeatedly, in the midst of such a merry outburst of laughter as made reproof impossible. Amy, who seemed greatly relieved to have rid her conscience of this burden, without any penance in consequence, ran off to play with the other children, and Margaret had just cut the leaves of a new magazine she had brought up with her and begun to look over the illustrations, when she became aware of a commotion among the children at the other end of the room and a confusion of excited voices. Presently little Decourcy came running toward her in much perturbation, and said, with a rising sob: “Auntie Mard’rit, is I a bullabulloo? Amy says I’se a bullabulloo. Now, is I?” “No, Dee,” said Margaret, soothingly, “you are no such thing. Tell Amy I say you are not.” Dee ran back to the closet, on the floor of which Amy was seated dressing her doll, and Margaret heard him say, triumphantly: “Auntie Mard’rit says I’se not no bullabulloo.” Amy, taking a pin out of her mouth to fasten the insufficient scrap of ribbon which she had been straining around her daughter’s clumsy waist, looked up into his face with great, serious eyes, and said mysteriously: “Yes, Dee, you _are_ a bullabulloo. Auntie Mard’rit don’t know it, and you don’t know it; _but you are_.” This idea was so hopelessly dreadful that poor little Dee could control himself no longer. He dropped his apronful of blocks upon the floor, and burst into a howl of despair. Margaret flew to the rescue, and, lifting him in her arms, carried him off to the window, muttering soothing denials of his remotest connection with bullabulloos. When he was in some slight measure comforted, Margaret called Amy to her and rebuked her sternly for teasing her little brother. What was her amazement to see Amy, as soon as she had finished, look up at her with the same serious gaze, and say, gravely: “Auntie Mard’rit, he _is_ a bullabulloo. You don’t know it, and Dee don’t know it; but _he is_.”