books."

Elnora waited. That morning she walked down the hall and into the
auditorium beside one of the very nicest girls in Onabasha, and it was
the fourth day. But the surprise came at noon when Ellen insisted upon
Elnora lunching at the Brownlee home, and convulsed her parents and
family, and overwhelmed Elnora with a greatly magnified, but moderately
accurate history of her lunch box.

"Gee! but it's a box, daddy!" cried the laughing girl. "It's carved
leather and fastens with a strap that has her name on it. Inside are
trays for things all complete, and it bears evidence of having enclosed
delicious food, but Elnora never gets any. She's carried it two days
now, and both times it has been empty before she reached school. Isn't
that killing?"

"It is, Ellen, in more ways than one. No girl is going to eat breakfast
at six o'clock, walk three miles, and do good work without her lunch.
You can't tell me anything about that box. I sold it last Monday night
to Wesley Sinton, one of my good country customers. He told me it was a
present for a girl who was worthy of it, and I see he was right."

"He's so good to me," said Elnora. "Sometimes I look at him and wonder
if a neighbour can be so kind to one, what a real father would be like.
I envy a girl with a father unspeakably."

"You have cause," said Ellen Brownlee. "A father is the very dearest
person in the whole round world, except a mother, who is just a dear."
The girl, starting to pay tribute to her father, saw that she must
include her mother, and said the thing before she remembered what Mrs.