“Can I buy him wis my six shiny pennies, Be'trice?” “Maybe.” “Mr. Cam'ron lives right over that hill, Be'trice. He told me.” “Did he, hon?” “Yes, he did. He 'vited me over, Be'trice. He's my friend, and I've got to buy my big, high pony. I'll let you shake hands wis him, Be'trice. I'll interduce him to you. And I'll let you ride on his back, Be'trice. Do you want to ride on his back?” “Yes, honey.” Before Beatrice had time to commit herself they reached the house, and she let go Dorman's hand and hurried away to get into her riding-habit. Dorman straightway went to find his six precious, shiny pennies, which Beatrice had painstakingly scoured with silver polish one day to please the little tyrant, and which increased their value many times--so many times, in fact, that he hid them every night in fear of burglars. Since he concealed them each time in a different place, he was obliged to ransack his auntie's room every morning, to the great disturbance of Martha, the maid, who was an order-loving person. Martha appeared just when he had triumphantly pounced upon his treasure rolled up in the strings of his aunt's chiffon opera-bonnet. “Mercy upon us, Master Dorman! Whatever have you been doing?” “I want my shiny pennies,” said the young gentleman, composedly unwinding the roll, “to buy my big, high pony.” “Naughty, naughty boy, to muss my lady's fine bonnet like that! Look at things scattered over the floor, and my lady's fine handkerchiefs and gloves--” Martha stopped and meditated whether she might dare to shake him. Dorman was laboriously counting his wealth, with much wrinkling of stubby nose and lifting of eyebrows. Having satisfied himself that they were really all there, he deigned to look around, with a fine masculine disdain of woman's finery. “Oh, dose old things!” he sniffed. “I always fordet where I put my shiny pennies. Robbers might find them if I put them easy places. I'm going to buy my big, high pony, and you can't shake his hand a bit, Martha.” “Well, I'm sure I don't want to!” Martha snapped back at him, and went down on all fours to gather up the things he had thrown down. “Whatever Parks was thinking of, to go and get fever, when she was the only one that could manage you, I don't know! And me picking up after you till I'm fair sick!” “I'm glad you is sick,” he retorted unfeelingly, and backed to the door. “I hopes you get sicker so your stummit makes you hurt. You can't ride on my big, high pony.” “Get along with you and your high pony!” cried the exasperated Martha, threatening with a hairbrush. Dorman, his six shiny pennies held fast in his damp little fist, fled down the stairs and out into the sunlight. Dick and Beatrice were just ready to ride away from the porch. “I want to go wis you, Uncle Dick.” Dorman had followed the lead of Beatrice, his divinity; he refused to say Richard, though grandmama did object to nicknames.