I know a little girl, the descendant of a long line of politicians. The hereditary instinct is so strongly developed in her that she is almost incapable of thinking for herself. Instead, she copies in everything her elder sister, who takes more after the mother. If her sister has two helpings of rice pudding for supper, then she has two helpings of rice pudding. If her sister isn't hungry and doesn't want any supper at all, then she goes to bed without any supper. This lack of character in the child troubles her mother, who is not an admirer of the political virtues, and one evening, taking the little one on her lap, she talked seriously to her. "Do try to think for yourself," said she. "Don't always do just what Jessie does, that's silly. Have an idea of your own now and then. Be a little original." The child promised she'd try, and went to bed thoughtful. Next morning, for breakfast, a dish of kippers and a dish of kidneys were placed on the table, side by side. Now the child loved kippers with an affection that amounted almost to passion, while she loathed kidneys worse than powders. It was the one subject on which she did know her own mind. "A kidney or a kipper for you, Jessie?" asked the mother, addressing the elder child first. Jessie hesitated for a moment, while her sister sat regarding her in an agony of suspense. "Kipper, please, ma," Jessie answered at last, and the younger child turned her head away to hide the tears. "You'll have a kipper, of course, Trixy?" said the mother, who had noticed nothing. "No, thank you, ma," said the small heroine, stifling a sob, and speaking in a dry, tremulous voice, "I'll have a kidney." "But I thought you couldn't bear kidneys," exclaimed her mother, surprised. "No, ma, I don't like 'em much." "And you're so fond of kippers!" "Yes, ma." "Well, then, why on earth don't you have one?" "'Cos Jessie's going to have one, and you told me to be original," and here the poor mite, reflecting upon the price her originality was going to cost her, burst into tears. * * * * * The other three of us refused to sacrifice ourselves upon the altar of Brown's originality. We decided to be content with the customary beautiful girl. "Good or bad?" queried Brown. "Bad," responded MacShaughnassy emphatically. "What do you say, Jephson?" "Well," replied Jephson, taking the pipe from between his lips, and speaking in that soothingly melancholy tone of voice that he never varies, whether telling a joke about a wedding or an anecdote relating to a funeral, "not altogether bad. Bad, with good instincts, the good instincts well under control." "I wonder why it is," murmured MacShaughnassy reflectively, "that bad people are so much more interesting than good."