“Flywheel Bob! Why, what a funny name!” spoke a low, silvery voice close by. Mr. Goodman turned hastily round, and there, at the threshold of the study, stood a little girl, with a decidedly pert air, and a pair of lustrous black eyes fixed full upon him; they seemed to say: “I know you told me not to enter here, yet here I am.” A profusion of ringlets rippled down her shoulders, and on one of her slender fingers glittered a gold ring. “Daisy, you have disobeyed me,” said her father, trying to appear stern; “and, what is more, you glide about like a cat.” “Do I?” said Daisy, smiling. “Well, pa, tell me who Flywheel Bob is; then I’ll go away.” “Something down at my factory――a little toy making pennies for you. There, now, retire, darling, retire.” “A little toy? Then give me Flywheel Bob; I want a new plaything,” pursued the child, quite heedless of the command to withdraw. “Well, I’d like to know how many toys you want?” said Mr. Goodman impatiently. “You’ve had dear knows how many dolls since Christmas.” “Nine, pa.” “And pray, what has become of them all, miss?” “Given away to girls who didn’t get any from Santa Claus.” “I declare! she’s her poor dear mother over again,” sighed the widower. “Margaret would give away her very shoes and stockings to the poor.” The sigh had barely escaped his lips when the foreman burst into a laugh, and presently Mr. Goodman laughed too; for, lo! peeping from behind the girl’s silk frock was the woolly head of a poodle. In his mouth was a doll with one arm broken off, hair done up in curls like Daisy’s, and a bit of yellow worsted twined around one of the fingers to take the place of a ring. “Humph! I don’t wonder you’ve had nine dolls in five months,” ejaculated Mr. Goodman after he had done laughing. “Rover, it seems, plays with them too; then tears them up.” “Well, pa, he is tired of dolls now, and wants Flywheel Bob; and so do I.” “I wish I hadn’t mentioned the boy’s name,” murmured Mr. Goodman. Then aloud: “Daisy dear, I am going out for a drive by and by; which way shall we go? To the Park?” “No; to Tiffany’s to have my ears pierced.” At this he burst into another laugh. “Why, pa, I’m almost ten, and old enough for earrings,” added Daisy, tossing her head and making the pretty ringlets fly about in all directions. “Well, well, darling; then we will go to Tiffany’s.” “And afterwards, pa, we’ll get Flywheel Bob.” “Oh! hush, my love. You cannot have him.” “_Him!_ Is he a little boy, pa?” Mr. Goodman did not answer. “Well, whatever Flywheel Bob is,” she continued, “I want a new plaything. This doll Rover broke all by accident. And I scolded you hard; didn’t I, Rover?” Here she patted the dog’s head. “But, pa, he sha’n’t hurt Flywheel Bob.” “Well, well, we’ll drive out in half an hour,” said her parent, who would fain have got the notion of Flywheel Bob out of his child’s head, yet feared it might stick there.