Athalie, her gaze remote, nodded absently. After a moment she lifted her steady dark blue eyes: "A boy kissed me, mamma," she remarked, dropping cross-legged at her mother's feet. "Don't kiss strange boys," said her mother quietly. "I didn't. But why not?" "It is not considered proper." "Why?" Her mother said: "Kissing is a common and vulgar practice except in the intimacy of one's own family." "I thought so," nodded Athalie; "I soaked him for doing it." "Who was he?" "Oh, it was that fresh Harry Eldon. I told him if he ever tried to get fresh with me again I'd kill him.... Mamma?" "Yes?" "All that about poor old Mr. Manners isn't true, is it?" Her mother smiled. The children had been taught to leave a morsel on their plates "for manners"; and to impress it upon them their mother had invented a story about a poor old man named Manners who depended upon what they left, and who crept in to eat it after they had retired from table. So leaving something "for Manners" had been thoroughly and successfully inculcated, until the habit was formed. And now Athalie was the last of the children to discover the gentle fraud practised upon her. "I'm glad, anyway," concluded the child. "I never thought we left him enough to eat." Her mother said: "I shall tell you only truths after this. You are old enough to understand reason, now, and to reason a little yourself." "I do.... But I am not yet perfectly sure where babies come from. You said you would tell me _that_ some day. I'd really like to know, mamma." Her mother continued to sew for a while, then, passing the needle through the hem she looked down at her daughter. "Have you formed any opinion of your own?" "Yes," said the child honestly. "Then I'd better tell you the truth," said her mother tranquilly, "because the truth is very wonderful and beautiful--and interesting." So she related to the child, very simply and clearly all that need be told concerning the mystery of life in its beginnings; and Athalie listened, enchanted. And mostly it thrilled the child to realise that in her, too, lay latent a capability for the creation of life. * * * * * Another hour with her mother she remembered in after years. Mrs. Greensleeve had not been as well: the doctor came oftener. Frequently Athalie returning from school discovered her mother lying on the bed. That evening the child was sitting on the floor at her mother's feet as usual, just inside the circle of lamplight, playing solitaire with an ancient pack of cards. Presently something near the door attracted her attention and she lifted her head and sat looking at it, mildly interested, until, suddenly, she felt her mother's eyes on her, flushed hotly, and turned her head away. "_What_ were you looking at?" asked her mother in a low voice. "Nothing, mamma." "Athalie!" "What, mamma?" "_What_ were you looking at?"