St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5 | Page 8

far from her dreamy fancies, when they were scattered by a tweak at one of her cropped locks.
"What does this mean?" asked the voice of the neighbor over the fence. "How came it to be done without my leave?"
"Don't I look manly, Mr. John?" said Mollie.
"What does it mean?" said he, severely.
"That would be telling," said Mollie.
"I intend that you shall tell me," said he.
"Oh, it's a secret!" said Mollie.
"All the better; we'll keep it together. Tell it."
He was a grown-up man, nearer thirty than twenty years old, who stooped to take an interest in his neighbor's little girl, and flattered himself that he was bringing her up in the way she should go. It amused him in his leisure moments to try the experiment of rearing a girl to be as unlike as possible the girl of the period.
From mere force of habit, Mollie opened her mouth and poured out her heart to him. He seemed quite impressed by the solemn confession. Mollie studied his face closely while she was speaking, and saw nothing but a grave and earnest interest in her project. She could not see deep enough to discover the indignation that was fuming over the loss of her pretty locks, and the purpose that was brewing to cure her of her folly.
"Don't have any half-way work about it, Mollie," said Mr. John. "Do the thing thoroughly, if you undertake it." "Oh yes, indeed!" said Mollie.
"If you should need an occasional reminder, I will try and help you," said he; "for of course it wont do to be off guard at all. But now get your hat, and we'll go for some ice-cream. I know you need cooling off this warm evening."
Mollie skipped about to run toward the house.
"Be careful of your steps," he called; and she tramped as boyishly as she could.
"No, don't take hold of my hand," as she came back and slipped her fingers in his. "Put your hands in your pockets."
"I've only one pocket," she answered meekly, putting her right hand in it.
"Difficulties at once, aren't there?" said Mr. John. "Your clothes want reforming, you see. You'll have to put on Bloomers."
"Oh!" said Mollie.
"I'm afraid you're not very much in earnest," he said. "You surely are not frightened by a trifle like that?" Mollie looked up imploringly.
"Must I?" she asked.
"Well," he answered, her earnestness making him fear that she would actually appear publicly in masculine array, "I don't know that it is necessary at present. A few days wont matter; and, after a while, it will seem to you the natural way to dress."
He was so faithful that evening in reminding her of her short-comings that their t��te-��-t��te over the little table in the ice-cream saloon, which usually was so cosey and delightful, was quite spoiled. She went to sleep regretting that she had taken Mr. John into her confidence and made it necessary for him to treat her as a boy.
She did not see him again for several days: and meanwhile she had taken her lessons in book-keeping, practiced the writing hours on heavy masculine strokes, learned to walk without dancing little whirligigs on her tiptoes every other minute, and made some progress in the art of whistling. She felt that she had done much to earn his commendation, and was anxious for a meeting.
On the way home from school, one afternoon, she saw his sister's baby at the window--the roundest, fattest, whitest and sweetest of all the babies that had taken up an abode in Mollie's heart, where babies innumerable were enshrined. There it was, being danced in somebody's hands before the window, and reaching out its ten dear little fingers to beckon her in.
She was quickly in, regardless of her gait. In a moment from the time the tempting vision appeared she was cuddling it in her arms, glibly talking the nonsense that it loved to hear, and kissing and petting it to her heart's content. She was so absorbed that she did not hear Mr. John come in; and he was close by her when she looked up and saw his face--not the genial, welcoming look she had been in the habit of meeting since he became her friend, but one of grave disapproval.
"I am ashamed of you, Mollie," he said. "Boys of your age don't pet babies in that way."
Mollie dropped it--she hardly knew whether on the floor or the stove--and flew. When she got home, she ran into the little back room that used to be her play-room. She was all ready for a good cry, and she closed the door. Then she thought, what if Mr. John were to see her crying like a girl-baby!--and she marched to the window, and through the dimness in her eyes tried to see something cheering. Her nature was very