regular little Mickey. I believe a person would be safe
in saying that he would not grow up a Presbyterian."--Mr.
Evans was the worshipful Grand Master of the Loyal Orange
Lodge, and well up in the Black, and this remark Mr.
Ducker thought he would appreciate.

"McSorley will never be dead while this little fellow
lives," Mr. Ducker laughed merrily, rubbing his hands.

The czar looked up and saw his father. Perhaps he understood
what had been said, and saw the hurt in his father's face
and longed to heal him of it; perhaps the time had come
when he should forever break the goo-goo bonds that had
lain upon his speech. He wriggled off Mary's knee, and
toddling uncertainly across the grass with a mighty mental
conflict in his pudgy little face, held out his dimpled
arms with a glad cry of "Daddy-dinger!"

That evening while Mrs. Ducker and Maudie were busy
fanning Mr. Ducker and putting wet towels on his head,
Mr. Evans sat down to write.

"Some more of that tiresome election stuff, John," his
pretty little wife said in disappointment, as she proudly
rocked the emancipated czar to sleep.

"Yes, dear, it is election stuff, but it is not a bit
tiresome," he answered smiling, as he kissed her tenderly.
Several times during the evening, and into the night,
she heard him laugh his happy boyish laugh.