“Arnold Carruth asked me, too, when a great big wasp flew on my arm and frightened me.” Cyril and Martha continued to look. The little, sweet, uncertain voice went on. “And Johnny Trumbull asked me when I 'most fell down on the sidewalk; and Lee Westminster asked me when I wasn't doing anything, and so did Bubby Harvey.” “What did you tell them?” asked Miss Martha, in a faint voice. “I told them I didn't know.” “You had better have the child go to bed now,” said Cyril. “Good night, little Lucy. Always tell father everything.” “Yes, father,” said little Lucy, and was kissed, and went away with Martha. When Martha returned, her cousin looked at her severely. He was a fair, gentle-looking man, and severity was impressive when he assumed it. “Really, Martha,” said he, “don't you think you had better have a little closer outlook over that baby?” “Oh, Cyril, I never dreamed of such a thing,” cried Miss Martha. “You really must speak to Madame,” said Cyril. “I cannot have such things put into the child's head.” “Oh, Cyril, how can I?” “I think it is your duty.” “Cyril, could not--you?” Cyril grinned. “Do you think,” said he, “that I am going to that elegant widow schoolma'am and say, 'Madame, my young daughter has had four proposals of marriage in one day, and I must beg you to put a stop to such proceedings'? No, Martha; it is a woman's place to do such a thing as that. The whole thing is too absurd, indignant as I am about it. Poor little soul!” So it happened that Miss Martha Rose, the next day being Saturday, called on Madame, but, not being asked any leading question, found herself absolutely unable to deliver herself of her errand, and went away with it unfulfilled. “Well, I must say,” said Madame to Miss Parmalee, as Miss Martha tripped wearily down the front walk--“I must say, of all the educated women who have really been in the world, she is the strangest. You and I have done nothing but ask inane questions, and she has sat waiting for them, and chirped back like a canary. I am simply worn out.” “So am I,” sighed Miss Parmalee. But neither of them was so worn out as poor Miss Martha, anticipating her cousin's reproaches. However, her wonted silence and reticence stood her in good stead, for he merely asked, after little Lucy had gone to bed: “Well, what did Madame say about Lucy's proposals?” “She did not say anything,” replied Martha. “Did she promise it would not occur again?” “She did not promise, but I don't think it will.” The financial page was unusually thrilling that night, and Cyril Rose, who had come to think rather lightly of the affair, remarked, absent-mindedly; “Well, I hope it does not occur again. I cannot have such ridiculous ideas put into the child's head. If it does, we get a governess for her and take her away from Madame's.” Then he resumed his reading, and Martha, guilty but relieved, went on with her knitting.