I could keep on writing about this kid until the “cows come home”—but I won’t. This paragraph shall suffice. We were coming up from town, hand in hand, when Cloy, fairly bubbling over with good cheer, said to me, “You never did let me see in your rooms.” I said, “Well, come in now and take a good look.” When inside, she said, “Gee, it stinks in here.” Defendant pleads nolo contendere. These two fine little youngsters have been in my home—separate apartment—since time began for them. And I’ve instilled in their heads the ice cream cone habit. Their mother has told them that they must not ask for the cones—but together we’ve worked out a way around that. Whenever I meet Karen, bright-eyed and smiling, in my path, I say to her, “Well, go in and tell your mother.” I never know how she gets it over to Marjorie—but we are always off at once, usually with a mighty active little trailer not far behind. When brought into my presence in the yard, before she could talk, Karen, doubtless thinking of a cone, would point the way down town and then run ahead for about a rod. When this did not bring the desired results, she would take me by the hand and lead the way, humming like a contented kitten sometimes purrs. When hardly three years old, Karen’s mother sent her, with an older little girl from across the street, on an errand down to Hart’s store. They both “fetched up” at the restaurant where I get my meals. They found me “in” — but Karen, in the lead, did not give me so much as a single look. They marched on past me, climbed — with much effort — onto the counter stools. Charlie Shaffer asked them a couple of times what they wanted — but they just stared. Charlie then glanced over toward me, laughing, which was equivalent to saying, “You take ‘em, ” and then I had gotten over my laughing spell, I called Karen over to me, and asked her if they would like cones. Her little head went up and down a couple of times. They got their cones, and went out pleased. And I was pleased, too. When the annual Wetmore Fair was in progress I found Karen, slightly more than four years old, sitting primly on a bench among strangers at the down-town end of the block on which we lived, and I sat down by her. She proudly told me she had on a new dress — a little yellow creation—which I later suspected she had been told to keep clean. I told her she looked nice—and this she accepted with true womanly grace. It also developed that she had been permitted to go thus far only in advance, to await the coming of her mother and Harry—but she did not take the trouble to tell me this. I asked her to go with me to the drugstore for cones. She hesitated a moment as if she were remembering something—and then declined to go, but she said, “I thank you for asking me.”