“Then the stories should go, little daughter,” said mamma, “if they hinder you remembering. Now try it for one day at a time. ‘Take short views,’ as Sydney Smith says.” “I’ll truly try,” repeated Cricket, with so serious a face that mamma felt greatly encouraged. Really, for a week Cricket’s improvement was marvellous. She resolutely put her beloved stories and day-dreams out of her mind, if she was told to do anything, until she had done it, and she began to realize that it had been largely a lack of attention that made her forget messages so. “I haven’t dropped my ball once this week,” Cricket confided in triumph to mamma, at the end of that time, as she kissed her good-night. Eunice had gone to bed early with a bad headache. “Really, do you know, remembering isn’t such hard work, if you only make up your mind that you will.” Mamma smiled. “I am glad you find it so. Good-night, love. By-the-by, stop at the library door, as you go upstairs, and tell papa that Mr. Evans has just sent word that he will be in about nine, on some important business.” “Yes, mamma,” said Cricket, stopping on her way out to play with Duster. Then she went out of the room and upstairs. At her room door she remembered her message. “Just in time,” she thought. “Most dropped it that time!” and she ran down again to the library. Mamma sat listening to see if she delivered the message. Hearing her run down stairs again, she smiled, satisfied. “Oh, papa,” Cricket began, when her attention was attracted by a beautifully illustrated, new volume, which papa was unwrapping. “Isn’t that beautiful!” she exclaimed, in delight. She hung over papa’s shoulder, as he turned the pages and explained some of the lovely pictures. Suddenly he pulled out his watch and stood up in thought for a moment. “May I see this more?” begged Cricket. “Yes, you may take it for a few minutes,” said papa. “Be sure you put it back on my table when you are through with it. I must step over to Brewster’s for a minute;” and papa took up some papers and left the room. Cricket did not heed him. She threw herself on the white goat-skin before the open fire, and, with her chin in her hand, she turned the leaves of the lovely volume in absorbed interest. Papa went out, and she did not even hear the door close. Mamma did, though, and stepped to the door of the parlour. The light still streamed from the library, and she went back, supposing papa was still there. An hour passed. About nine the bell rang violently; Cricket did not hear it. A few minutes after, mamma’s repeated “Cricket” brought her to her feet. “Where is your father?” Mrs. Ward was saying. “Didn’t you give him my message?” “What message?” faltered Cricket, looking bewildered. “Didn’t you tell him that Mr. Evans would call? Why, _Cricket_!” “Oh, mamma, what shall I do? I forgot all about it.”