Young Mrs. Sage jumped up from her chair. “I’ve got an idea,” she cried briskly. “Suppose we all chip in a silver piece toward the fortune of Oliver October. It’s his birthday, so let’s start him off right. You pass the hat, Mr. Sikes. Chip in for me, Herbert. I left my purse on the piano.” “I didn’t know you had a piano,” said Mrs. Grimes, pricking up her ears. “Figure of speech,” said Mrs. Sage, airily. “If I had a piano I would have left my purse upon it if I had a purse.” There was a jingling of small coins in several pockets. The swarthy faces of the two gypsies brightened. Horace Gooch glanced at his big watch—a silver one—and said sharply: “Didn’t I tell you to get your things on, Ida? We’ve got a long, cold drive ahead of us.” Then, somewhat defiantly: “Besides, I haven’t got anything smaller than a silver dollar. No baby’s fortune is worth a dollar.” “I guess the queen can change a dollar for you, Mr. Gooch,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Joe, if you have a spare quarter, put it in for me. I’ll hand it back to-morrow.” Sikes picked up the parson’s stove-pipe hat and, fishing some coins out of his pocket, dropped two of them into the hollow depths of the “tile.” “That’s for me and Serepty. Come on, Silas. Shell out.” Link flipped a coin into the hat. “There’s a quarter. Now you can change that dollar for—er—for Ollie’s brother-in-law.” “After all, it is a harmless experiment,” announced Mr. Sage, but dubiously, “and it may prove diverting. In any case, my dear, we will not miss the—er—the—the thirty-five cents.” As he dropped the coins into the hat, he leaned over and whispered in her ear: “There goes the jar of cold cream you were wanting, my dear.” Oliver October’s parent was embarrassed. “It ain’t right for you folks to be squandering all this money on account of little Oliver October. You can’t afford it. ’Specially Horace.” “What’s that?” snapped Mr. Gooch, reddening. “What do you think I am? A pauper?” With that he tossed a silver dollar into the hat. “That’s the kind of a sport I am.” “Oh, Horace!” cried his wife, starting. “That was a dollar.” “I know it was. Why?” “Oh—nothing. Only—only you acted as if it was a dime.” “How much you got, Joe?” inquired Silas. “Two-ten. Put your money back in your pocket, Ollie. She ought to tell all our fortunes for two-ten.” But Baxter, ignoring him, dropped a dollar into the hat, an act of vanity which drew from Mrs. Grimes a little squeak of dismay. “Goodness, Oliver Baxter! The child’s got to have clothes.” “How do you know it has to have clothes?” demanded Baxter. “Wait till the queen gets through telling what’s going to happen to him before you go to prophesying on your own account.” “I wish I’d put you to bed when I started to awhile ago,” was her retort. Mrs. Gooch, who had been a silent and disapproving witness to all this prodigality, piped up: “I was fool enough to have my fortune told at the county fair once. By a trained canary bird. For ten cents only.”