She danced farther away. “Dicky thingth it. Thithy thingth it!” she persisted, and as he scowled she pursed her lips again. “_Yelly belly, yelly belly——_” “I won’t sing it! I won’t!” he cried desperately. “I won’t if you’ll keep still! So there! I tell you I won’t!” She stopped, amused at his emotion. All ignorant of his sacrifice, all careless of his heroic defense of her, she only knew that she could tease him in an entirely new way. And the Little God, knowing that Dicky would keep his word, and that Peter would never get the chance for the scandalized admiration once in store for him, strutted proudly away and polished up his chains. His victim was secure. Her brother, on learning the facts, suggested slapping her well—good heavens!—and having nothing more to do with her, for a mean, sneaking tattle-tale. Here was an opportunity to break his bonds. But to those who have served the Little God it will be no surprise to learn that it was on that very evening that he made his famous proposal to the assembled family, namely, that he and Cecelia should be really engaged like her Uncle Harry and Miss Merriam, and in a little while marry and set up housekeeping in the guest chamber. “That’s what Miss Merriam is going to do,” he explained, “and Cissy’s grandma is sorry, too; it doesn’t leave her any place for company but the hall bedroom. But they’ve got to have the room, she s’poses.” “That will do, Richard! You are not to repeat everything you hear. And I am afraid I need the guest chamber. What should we do when Aunt Nannie comes?” “Oh, Cissy could have her crib right in the room. She wouldn’t mind Aunt Nanny,” he replied superbly. “She always sleeps in a crib, and she always will. A bed scares her—she’s afraid she’ll fall out. I could sleep on the couch, like Christmas time!” But in the manner of age the wide world over, they merely urged him to wait. There was plenty of time. Time! and she might be living in the house with them! It was that very night that he reached the top of the wave, and justified the Little God’s selection. He came down to breakfast rapt and quiet. He salted his oatmeal by mistake and never knew the difference. His sister laughed derisively, and explained his folly to him as he swallowed the last spoonful, but he only smiled kindly at her. After his egg he spoke. “I dreamed that it was dancing-school. And I went. And I was the only fellow there. And what do you think? _All the little girls were Cecelia!_” They gasped. “You don’t suppose he’ll be a poet, do you, Ritch.? Or a genius, or anything?” his mother inquired anxiously. “Lord, no!” his father returned. “I should say he was more likely to be a Mormon!” Dick knew nothing of either class. But the Little God knew very well what he was, and was at that moment making out his diploma. _The End_ ❦ By A. Conan Doyle