"Now confess, mother, that you won't find sweeter flowers even in heaven." And when the thrush is on the apple bough outside the window, Margaret will sometimes employ the same gentle raillery. "Do you think, mother," she will say, "that an angel could sing sweeter than that thrush?" "You seem very sure, Margaret, that I am going to heaven," the old mother will sometimes say, with one of her arch old smiles; "but do you know that I stole two peppermints yesterday?" "You did!" says Margaret. "I did indeed! and they have been on my conscience ever since." "Really, mother! I don't know what to say," answers Margaret. "I had no idea that you are so wicked." Many such little games the two play together, as the days go by; and often at bedtime, as Margaret tucks her mother into bed, she asks her: "Are you comfortable, dear? Do you really think you would be much more comfortable in heaven?" Or sometimes she will draw aside the window-curtains and say: "Look at the stars, mother.... Don't you think we get the best view of them down here?" So it is that Margaret persuades her mother to delay her journey a little while. Kittie's Sister Josephine BY ELIZABETH JORDAN Kittie James told me this story about her sister Josephine, and when she saw my eye light up the way the true artist's does when he hears a good plot, she said I might use it, if I liked, the next time I "practised literature." I don't think that was a very nice way to say it, especially when one remembers that Sister Irmingarde read three of my stories to the class in four months; and as I only write one every week, you can see yourself what a good average that was. But it takes noble souls to be humble in the presence of the gifted, and enthusiastic over their success, so only two of my classmates seemed really happy when Sister Irmingarde read my third story aloud. It is hardly necessary to mention the names of these beautiful natures, already so well known to my readers, but I will do it. They were Maudie Joyce and Mabel Blossom, and they are my dearest friends at St. Catharine's. And some day, when I am a real writer and the name of May Iverson shines in gold letters on the tablets of fame, I'll write a book and dedicate it to them. Then, indeed, they will be glad they knew me in my schoolgirl days, and recognized real merit when they saw it, and did not mind the queer things my artistic temperament often makes me do. Oh, what a slave is one to this artistic, emotional nature, and how unhappy, how misunderstood! I don't mean that I am unhappy all the time, of course, but I have Moods. And when I have them life seems so hollow, so empty, so terrible! At such times natures that do not understand me are apt to make mistakes, the way Sister Irmingarde did when she thought I had nervous dyspepsia and made me walk three miles every day, when it was just Soul that was the matter with me. Still, I must admit the exercise helped me. It is so soothing, so