Cherry tossed his head and increased his stride. The carpenter had one weakness—that was horseflesh. He was always the owner of a roadster of note. “That’s a funny name for a horse, Mr. Parlow,” observed Carolyn May. “Cherry red. That’s his colour.” “Oh!” “And I got a cat home that’s cherry colour, too.” “Why-e-e-e!” exclaimed the little girl, “I’m sure I never saw that one, Mr. Parlow. Your cat is black—all black.” “Well,” chuckled the old man over the ancient joke, “he’s the colour of a blackheart cherry.” “Oh, my! I never thought of that,” giggled Carolyn May. She looked up into his hard, dry face with an expression of perplexity in her own. “Mr. Parlow,” she went on seriously, “don’t you think _now_ that Miss Amanda ought to be happy?” “Happy!” exclaimed the carpenter, startled. “What about, child?” “Why, about everything. You know, once I asked you about her being happy, and—and you didn’t seem fav’rable. You said ‘Bah!’” Carolyn May’s imitation of that explosive word as previously used by Mr. Parlow was absolutely funny; but the carpenter only looked at her sidewise, and his face remained grim. “So I said ‘Bah,’ did I?” he grunted. “And what makes you think I might not say it now?” “Why,” explained Carolyn May earnestly, “I hoped you’d come to see things like—like I do. You are lots pleasanter than you used to be, Mr. Parlow—indeed, you are. You are happier yourself.” The old man made no reply for a minute, and Carolyn May had the patience to wait for her suggestion to “sink in.” Finally, he said: “I dunno but you’re right, Car’lyn May. Not that it matters much, I guess, whether a body’s happy or not in this world,” he added grudgingly. “Oh, yes, it does, Mr. Parlow! It matters a great deal, I am sure—to us and to other people. If we’re not happy _inside_ of us, how can we be cheerful _outside_, and so make other people happy? And that is what I mean about Miss Amanda.” “What about Mandy?” “She isn’t happy,” sighed Carolyn May. “Not really. She’s just as good as good can be. She is always doing for folks, and helping. But she can’t be real happy.” “Why not?” growled Mr. Parlow, his face turned away. “Why—’cause—Well, you _know_, Mr. Parlow, she can’t be happy as long as she and my Uncle Joe are mad at each other.” Mr. Parlow uttered another grunt, but the child went bravely on. “You know very well that’s so. And I don’t know what to do about it. It just seems too awful that they should hardly speak, and yet be so fond of each other deep down.” “How d’you know they’re so fond of each other—deep down?” Mr. Parlow demanded. “I know my Uncle Joe likes Miss Mandy, ’cause he always speaks so—so respectful of her. And I can see she likes him, in her eyes,” replied the observant Carolyn May. “Oh, yes, Mr. Parlow, they ought to be happy again, and we ought to make ’em so.” “Huh! Who ought to?” “You and me. We ought to find some way of doing it. I’m sure we can, if we just think hard about it.”