"What's the matter, little girl?"

The lamenting one, who was about four years old, rolled around and
regarded the lady with a contorted face. Her wails died to a whimper:
but then, curiosity satisfied and no solace offering, she burst forth as
with an access of mysterious pain.

"Did she hurt herself?" said Carlisle, third-personally, to the elder
girl, who had suspended her game to stare wide-eyed. "What on earth is
the matter?"

The reply was tragically simple:

"_A Lady stepped on her Junebug_."

Sure enough, full on the vestibule floor lay the murdered slumbug, who
had too hardily ventured to cross a wealthy benevolent's path. The
string was yet tied to the now futile hind-leg. Carlisle, lingering,
repressed her desire to laugh.

"Oh!... Well, don't you think you could catch her a new one, perhaps?"

"Bopper he mout ketch her a new one mebbe to-morrow, mom.... _Hiesh_,
Rebecca!"

Moved by some impulse in her own buoyant mood, Carlisle touched the
littlest girl on the shoulder with a well-gloved finger.

"Here--Rebecca, poor child!... You can buy yourself something better