"I like babies and dolls. You can hold them in your arms, and they don't tease you. Don't you like babies?" "I hate them. I believe I'm frightened of them." A clear rippling laugh broke from the child. "You are so funny! What is your name? I don't know what to call you." "Rufus Tracy. Now I must know yours." "Greta Clay is mine. My proper name is Margaret, but mother has always called me Greta, and Becca does too." They chatted on between the gusts of wind and rain, and the walk seemed to be half the distance to little Greta. She was deposited on the school doorstep, and Rufus went to his desk in the bank, wondering at his sudden interest in the welfare of this quaint old-fashioned child. He began to picture her in prosperous circumstances, growing into a slim, graceful girl; the white-pinched face filling out, and a healthy bloom making her into a sparkling beauty. And then he laughed at himself. "Why should I feel such concern about her! She will swell the number of women workers, and twenty years hence will have a care-worn brow with sharp features, and shortsighted eyes. A down-trodden governess, with all her hopes and aspirations within the four walls of a grim schoolroom! May God help her then, poor little soul!" As he retraced his steps along the solitary high road later in the day, he found his mind still reverting to her; and when he reached his room, he instinctively moved across to the window, and gazed upon the opposite house with fresh interest in his eyes. As his room was in the upper story he was able to look down upon a firelight scene, which for the moment proved most attractive. On a couch near the fire lay an invalid. Even at that distance he seemed to see her gentleness and frailty, and kneeling by her side was the little figure he had befriended on his way to business that morning. The firelight shone on her curls, and by her animated gestures and movements, he concluded she was giving her mother an account of her adventure. A third figure in the background was moving to and fro, placing a tea-tray on the table, then lighting a lamp which revealed the bareness and poverty of the room as the flickering firelight failed to do; and then, coming toward the window with a brisk pull the blind was lowered, and the picture for the time was blotted out. Rufus Tracy gave a sigh, then pulled out his pipe, and sitting down by the fire, awaited his evening meal impatiently. The next morning dawned bright and fair. Wind and rain were evils of the past, and as he again wended his way to town, he whistled and sang to himself from sheer exuberance of spirit. It was not long before he descried the little figure ahead. "Hullo!" he called out cheerily as he came up to her. "How are you this morning?" The child looked round with a frightened, flushed face, then raising her chin in the air, she walked steadily on as if he had not spoken. "Have I frightened you?" he asked, with amusement.