walked slowly on, soon finding themselves on the outskirts of a town.

Presently the streets grew dingy and the houses high and narrow. "I don't see anything to do here," said Marjorie. "Couldn't we go back into the country again?"

"Don't you see anything to do?" asked the Dream, and just then Marjorie noticed a little child standing on the curbing, it's hands clasped and it's eyes fixed upon the bunch of roses.

Selecting the largest and most beautiful one, she placed it in the child's hands,—and a little farther on she gave two to a weary-looking woman,—and then a bud to an old man whose eyes moistened, and whose fingers trembled as he placed it in his button-hole,—and then a flower to a ragged, hard-featured boy, who held it awkwardly for a moment, his face transfigured, and then dived into the door of a dismal tenement. And all the way up the squalid street Marjorie distributed her bright blossoms, and always with a cheery word and smile.

At last the houses began to be farther and farther apart, and the yards larger, and presently they found themselves back in the open country once more. The road was very much like the one by which they had approached the town, pleasant and shady, and with a tiny brook running along the side. Marjorie bent over the little stream to wash the grime of the city from her hands, and then stopped for a moment to splash the bright drops upon some thirsty flowers growing on the bank and leaning as far over as they could. While she was doing this, she heard the sound of a hammer close by, and, glancing around, she saw that she was near a farm-house with a large barn and sheds, and that a boy was busily nailing the pickets on to a fence, the frame of which stood a little way back from the road. Marjorie watched him for a few moments, admiring the evenness with which he placed the pickets, and the sure, firm blows of the hammer; at last, however, she began to grow uneasy. "Look," she said to the Dream, "see how close together he is nailing them. That isn't the right way. Why do you suppose he does it so? He's just spoiling the looks of his fence."

"Probably he does it that way because he wants it that way," said the Dream carelessly.

"But they don't look well that way, and it takes more pickets and more nails and a longer time."

The Dream looked at the boy and the fence, critically. "It's not such a bad fence," he said, dryly; "and the boy looks fairly smart, doesn't he?—and he handles his tools as if he had built fences before. Perhaps he knows what he is about."

"Y-e-s, he looks smart enough," agreed Marjorie; "but he is certainly making a mistake now, and I think I ought to tell him about it."

"All right," said the Dream. "Go ahead."

So Marjorie approached the boy, who stopped hammering and looked up at her pleasantly. "I thought that I would better tell you—" began Marjorie, somewhat embarrassed, "that—that—" she found it more difficult than she had expected, "—well, you see, you are making a mistake."

"What do you mean?" asked the boy glancing along the trim row of palings.

"Why, you are putting the pickets too close together," said Marjorie. "They don't look well that way, and they are too near the ground, besides. I was just speaking to my friend about it, and I thought that I ought to tell you, as well."

"Thank you," said the boy, gravely; and then:—"Do you know what I am building this fence for?"

"No-o," said Marjorie. "I supposed it was just—just a fence."

"Well," said the boy, "a fence usually has some particular purpose; and, as a general thing, the person building it knows that purpose better than any one else, and just what sort of a fence is best in that especial case."

Marjorie said nothing, and the boy went on.

"I am fencing in a place for some white rabbits. Some of them are very small, and so I had to put the pickets near together and close to the ground. Do you see?"

"Oh," said Marjorie, "I didn't know what you were going to keep inside! Of course you would have to build it this way for the little rabbits. If I had known what it was for, I wouldn't have said anything."

"Was it necessary for you to know?" asked the boy. "It is my fence."

Marjorie flushed, "I don't think that you are very grateful," she said; "and, anyway, the pickets don't look well so close together, even if you do have to have it that way," and she turned and went back to the road.

"Well?" said the Dream, as she approached.

"He was disagreeable," said Marjorie, "and acted as if I had no right to tell him of his mistake."

"But is he going to change the pickets?"

"No," said Marjorie, "he has to have them that way to keep some rabbits inside. I told him it didn't look well, anyway."

"Of course that helped some," said the Dream, "since he must have them so, whether they look well or not."

"Yes," said Marjorie. "See, he has come out into the road to look at them. I guess what I said sort of worried him. I don't think those pickets are a good shape, either. I like them better where they are cut sort of curly on top, instead of just plain points."

"Yes," said the Dream. "And did you tell him about that too?"

"No," said Marjorie, "I didn't think about it then; but—say—where do you suppose those rabbits are now? You don't think that they are shut up in that little dark shed over there, do you? Wouldn't that be dreadful? There, those people heard what I said, and they are wondering too. See them look,—and I suppose that they will tell others about it. Isn't it too bad? And he's such a nice appearing boy too. I'm sure he doesn't mean to be cruel. I think that some one ought to speak to him. Poor little things, shut up in the dark on a beautiful day like this! It ought not to be allowed. I'm going to talk to him!" and Marjorie ran across the road again.

The boy glanced up as she approached; but waited for her to speak. Marjorie looked him straight in the eye. "Where are your rabbits?" she asked, severely.

"In the shed," he replied, motioning with his head in the direction of the building she had noticed.

"What!" she exclaimed. "A lot of lovely white rabbits shut up in that little dark shed! Oh, how can you be so unkind?"

"They have been there only about two hours," said the boy, "and I shall let them out as soon as I have nailed on these last few pickets. It will be only a little while; and besides, the shed is not dark, there is a big window on the other side, and they have cabbage and things to eat, and a great armful of clover."

"But they are shut up!" cried Marjorie. "How would you like to be shut up in jail, even if you did have a lot of cabbage and clover? You ought to let them out right away. Don't you love them at all?"

"Of course I love them," said the boy; "but can't you see that if I let them out now I will lose them? And, besides, they are tame rabbits and don't know how to take care of themselves, and would get into all sorts of trouble, and probably spoil all of the gardens in the neighborhood."

Marjorie looked unconvinced. "Your arguments sound all right," she said; "but I am sure that they must be wrong somewhere, because it certainly isn't right for those poor, dear little rabbits to be shut up that way. They ought to be let out right now. The fence is nearly done and they wouldn't try to go through the opening while you are working on it; they would be afraid. If you don't let them out, every one will be talking about how cruel you are. I suppose that is what those people are talking about now," and Marjorie pointed to the