"John Thomas," he said warningly, "you kape away from that loonytick. Moind me, they're thryin' to take up his moind wid brushes an' punchin' bags, but this kind is cunnin' as foxes, an' there'll be mischief in the end. Moind now, what I say." "Why, pa," expostulated Marie Jean, with a giggle, "he ain't out of his mind." "He is," insisted Mr. Hennesy stoutly. "Av coorse he is. Wid a brush fer his hands, an' a brush fer his nails, an' another fer his teeth, an' two widout handles fer his hair, an' wan fer his clo'es an' two fer his shoes an' another fer his hat! Av coorse he is, an' there takin' up his moind wid brushes. Moind what I say." "Don't expose yer iggerence, Mr. Hennesy," put in his wife good-naturedly. "People uses all thim brushes nowadays." "Well thin, if he ain't crazy, what kind of work does he be doin' to nade all thim brushes to kape clean,--can ye answer me thot, Mrs. Hennesy?" John Thomas gracefully turned the conversation. "She give me this," he said, putting his hand in his pocket and extracting something wrapped in tissue paper. "She said she had two others an' had been thinkin' of puttin' this one in the box fer the sufferin' savages, an' would I take it just to remember how we worked together over the flower bed. So then I tuk it." "What do it be for?" inquired Mr. Hennesy, eyeing the strange object with suspicion. "It's a nail file, to grind off yer finger nails,--if they grow long enough," answered John Thomas, regarding his own broken nails meditatively. "It's silver, too," he added. Mr. Hennesy sniffed. "I'll not be borryin' it," he observed. "I'm not nadin' a file to kape me own nails short. The rocks I do be handlin' iv'ry day, John Thomas, seems to be all that's required." Marie Jean's silvery laugh tinkled on the air as John Thomas returned the file to his pocket and passed his plate for more cabbage. "Miss Billy's all right, anyhow," he went on, addressing his conversation to Marie Jean, for the laugh rankled. "She ain't ashamed if her name is Wilhelmina, or even Miss Billy: an' she don't have no big bushy frizzes coverin' up her ears, an' she don't wear feathers in her hat. She told me so herself." Marie Jean's laugh tinkled again, and she rose from the table. She did not offer to help her mother wash the dishes, but swept into the hall and took her hat down from the rack, preparatory to going down town. It was a large black hat, heavy with buckles and plumes. She adjusted it coquettishly on her head so that one plume hung directly over her eyes, and took down her gloves. The vision that gazed back at her from the hall glass was certainly an entrancing one, but Marie Jean lingered for an experiment. She lifted the heavy hair off her ears, tucked it up out of sight, and holding back the waving plumes, gazed again. Then with a shrug of her shoulders, she let hair and plumes fall, and swept out of the house. * * * * *