persons who had overheard her comments a few moments before.

The boy glanced toward them anxiously, and then toward the shed. "Well," he said at last, doubtfully, "perhaps I can manage it;—if only they won't go through the gap before I can get back to it after opening the door," and he turned and walked unwilling toward the shed.

"I'll watch the gap," called Marjorie after him.

When he reached the building, he hesitated for an instant, and then he drew the bolt and threw open the door; but before he had time to turn and head them off, out scrambled a white wave of rabbits; big and little, fat and thin; and with one accord made straight for the opening in the fence. The boy ran after them, calling excitedly to Marjorie to stand firm and not let them through; and for a moment Marjorie did stand firm before the oncoming army of waving ears and flying feet; but when she felt the first scrambling of paws about her ankles, she lost her nerve, and in a sudden panic she fled wildly across the road and on to the top rail of the fence on the other side; and by the time that the boy reached the opening, the rabbits were scattered in every direction up and down the road and over the fields. For a few moments he stood, looking after them, and then, without glancing toward Marjorie, he took up in his arms one trembling little white fellow who had failed to find the opening, and turned toward the shed with it.

Marjorie climbed slowly down from the fence and walked along the road, silently and with her head down.

Presently the Dream spoke. "Was it your work that the boy was doing?" he asked.

"No," said Marjorie.

"Was he worried and uncertain when you came along? Did he ask for your opinion or advice?"

"No," said Marjorie.

"And what did you do?"

Marjorie spoke in a very low voice, but very steadily. "I criticised him unjustly; I talked about him in the hearing of other people, and some of them will never know that he was right and I was wrong; and I interfered, and now—" Marjorie stopped and swallowed hard.

"And now—what?" asked the Dream.

"I am sorry," said Marjorie humbly.

"So is the boy," said the Dream.

Marjorie said nothing.

"Aren't you afraid you'll get the habit?" asked the Dream, presently.

"What habit?"

"You've said 'I'm sorry,'—how many times to-day?"

Marjorie shook her head. "It seems as if I have said it oftener than anything else. But I ought to be sorry when I make mistakes, oughtn't I?"

"Yes. Only don't hold on to it after you have learned your lesson, that's all. The lesson is the only good thing about being sorry;—and you and the boy, each, had a lesson this time."

"Yes," said Marjorie, "and mine is that other people's work—"

"Make it short," said the Dream. "Call it 'mind your own business.'"

Marjorie nodded gravely. "And the boy's lesson is—"

"'Be sure you're right, then go ahead,
'Don't mind what people say.'"

hummed the Dream.

Marjorie nodded again. "But it is so hard to 'be sure you're right,' when other people think that you are wrong."

"Not if you keep an honest WHY in sight," said the Dream.

"Listen," said Marjorie, "I hear singing," and she looked all about her eagerly, but could see no one. "How sweet it sounds," she said; "there must be quite a number singing together. Oh, there they are!" and she pointed to where a group of five or six children were just emerging from a shady lane and turning into the road, all singing gaily to a tune which Marjorie knew very well. "Come," she cried, "let's catch up. I'd love to sing with them," and she hurried her steps.

As she came up behind the children, several turned and saw her. "Come and sing with us," called one of them.

"Thank you," said Marjorie. "I was just wishing you'd ask me," and she eagerly joined the group. However, as they took up the song again, Marjorie did not take part in it; but, instead, a little wrinkle came between her eyebrows, and she glanced anxiously at the Dream, who did not seem to be looking in her direction at all.

Presently, one of the children who was walking beside her, stopped singing and turned toward her. "Why don't you sing?" he asked.

"I—I don't know those words," said Marjorie.

"Do you know the tune?" asked the boy.

"Oh, yes," said Marjorie; "but I always sang different words to it."

"Well, you can learn these easily," said the boy. "I'll teach them to you."

Marjorie hesitated. "You are very kind," she said; "but—but—"

"But—what?" said the boy.

"Well—" Marjorie was thinking hard, "—I am not sure but that I ought to be going on—"

"You said that you wanted to sing," said the boy.

Suddenly Marjorie's face brightened. "Oh, I know!" she exclaimed. "Did you ever try singing the multiplication table to that tune? It's lots of fun. Let's try it."

"All right," said the boy, "only I don't know it all."

"This will help you to learn it," said Marjorie. "I remember it, so you just follow me. We'll begin with the fives, because they're easy;" and they dropped a little way behind the others and began to sing, softly, putting their own words to the tune. The boy was delighted to find how easily the words fitted, and presently they went on to the "Sixes," and began to sing a little louder; and then another of the children dropped back to find what they were doing, and joined in, with gusto. This attracted the attention of others, who gradually joined them, until soon the words of the multiplication table rose high above the silly and senseless words of the song which they had been singing;—and Marjorie's voice led them, singing true to note and to the facts of the table.

"Good!" said the boy who was walking beside Marjorie, as they stopped for breath. "I always thought the 'Sixes' were hard; but they are easy this way; for the tune makes me think of the right words to put in. Now let's try the 'Sevens.'"

And so they tried the "Sevens" and the "Eights," some of the children stumbling badly at first; but soon getting into the swing of the tune and the words, until their voices all blended smoothly and sweetly. By and by the children began dropping out of the group, as they came to their homes on the road; each one calling a cheery good-by to Marjorie, and going away singing by himself.

"I'm going to teach it to my brother and sister," called one, as he turned in at his gate, "so that we can sing it together at home."

"And so am I," "And so am I," called the others; "and we'll sing it coming from school every night until we know it all."

When Marjorie and the Dream were again alone, Marjorie continued humming the little tune, happily.

"The world is more beautiful than it was. Don't you think so?" said the Dream, presently.

"Yes," said Marjorie.

"I suppose you know what was the best thing that you did there?" said the Dream.

"Yes," said Marjorie. "It was putting something true into their song, in place of what was silly and meaningless and untrue."

"And you did it without making one of them feel cross or contrary. You only showed them something better than they had, and did it without being obtrusive. Every one wants what is better than he has;—if he is allowed to take it of his own accord, and doesn't have it thrust upon him."

After this they walked along in silence for quite a long way, until they came to the top of a hill, and sat down to rest for a few moments. Marjorie heaved a sigh as she looked away over the low, green hills, the shady woods, and