Her name was Lucy. Or, perhaps, Marielle. Or, for the sake of variety, Lucretia. And what a portentous proposition in pantalettes she was, to be sure! [Illustration: “Rollo, Lucy and Mariette went Together.”] She talked just as exquisitely as did the Good Boy. Her selection of words was artistic, and her grammar immaculate. If William Pitt’s natural style was that of the “State Paper,” the colloquial standard of Lucy, Lucretia and Marielle was that of Madame de Stael. She walked with primness; if she ran at all, it was with dignity; she did not giggle, did not romp, never made a mud pie, never pinched the Good Boy, and was such a formidable little thing, generally, that even the Bad Boy never snatched her bonnet. Such a thought as that of stealing a kiss from her never entered the head of _any_ boy, good, bad or indifferent. This unearthly girl always seemed an impossibility to me, after I became a grown-up, until I chanced to read about the daughter of John Adams, second President of these United States. Mr. Adams married a stately woman whose name was Abigail. What else could you expect, if not that a girl born to John Adams and his wife, Abigail, would be a tremendous little girl from the very start? Her parents named _her_ Abigail,—as an additional guarantee against chewing gum, coca-cola, slang, and tomboyishness. [Illustration: ABIGAIL ADAMS] At the age of eighteen, we find Miss Abigail Adams writing about her father as though he were some Sphinx or Pyramid that she had been viewing. Please go slow, as you read what this young lady says of her own papa: “I discover a thousand traits of softness, delicacy and sensibility in this excellent man’s character. How amiable, how respectable, how worthy of every token of my attention has this conduct rendered a parent, a father, to whom we feel due even a resignation of our opinions.” Did you ever? Just try to put yourself at the view-point of a girl who could calmly sit down and analyze her father, as a naturalist would disjoint a rare beetle. Think of a daughter referring to her father as “_this excellent man_,” and classing him “_respectable_”! Think of a daughter dutifully conceding, in writing, that her dad is “worthy of my attention” and “even a resignation of our opinions.” And, after all, she jumped from the sublime to the ridiculous by marrying a man named Smith! But she has restored my confidence in the girl of the Sunday school book. Lucy _did_ appear on this planet in the flesh; and when she talked and wrote her style was that of little Abigail Adams. Marielle was not an impossibility, nor was Lucretia. Even that obnoxious Good Boy was true to life—if John Adams’ description of his son John Quincy is not too highly colored by paternal pride. After reading said paternal description I can understand how it was that, while Henry Clay made friends out of those whom he refused, John Quincy Adams made enemies by his manner in granting favors.