haphazard, just to get over the minutes that were left. And even as endless a time as 'leven minutes ends. If that had meant the day's end of practising all would have been well, and it is doubtful if the wickedness would ever have entered into Dorothy. But there was another half-hour to "praxit" in the afternoon. And to-morrow two more halfhours, and two more-and two-mores forever and ever. The Fräulein days that were coming would be even worse, too, because on Fräulein days you had to praxit just so. "Oh!" groaned Dorothy, in the loathing of her soul."Oh, how can I bear 'em!" Then Then the wickedness: she would not bear themshe wouldn't-she wouldn't! She would think of a way not to. Dorothy was an expert in ways not to. Perhaps she thought quicker on account quicker on account of the mother-face being turned away-it is not easy to plot wickednesses with motherfaces looking straight at you. Whatever was the reason, Dorothy soon had her "way." It was a beautiful one-why hadn't she thought of it before? She had a minute in the midst of her triumphing to pity herself for all those past half-hours. They might just as well have been saved. Wallie would be willing. He'd probably just as lives, on account of his legs. If they wouldn't go like other people's he couldn't do things like other people, could he? Well, then, reasoned Dorothy, he'd just as lives praxit as not. His fingers went splendidly. "And I shall pay him out o' my 'lowance," she said, aloud; "I shall always pay him. I'm not certain how much papa pays Fräulein, but I think-yes, it is prob'ly about sixteen cents." Sixteen cents seemed a suitable remuneration. "So I'll pay Wallie that, and it'll make him regular rich!" Dorothy began to feel the pleasant glow of a doer of benevolences. She would be doing good! Wallie was poor now. To dainty Dorothy his mended little trousers and the napless velvet on top of his crutches meant actual poverty. She would go around the corner into Sunny Lane and broach the new and enticing plan without delay to Wallie. She was forbidden Sunny Lane, but in the stress of the moment she did not remember that-and, anyway, anyway, the mother-face was turned away and Grandmother Mary was knitting deafly in the other room. The other room did not overlook Sunny Lane. "You'll be getting real rich," reasoned Dorothy, around the corner; "and it won't hurt your legs any, you see." "But I don't know how to-" objected gentle Wallie, who up to the present time had been honest. "That's no matter a bit!" assured him the little thinker-up of wickedness. "I can show you how. You look here, Wallie! You watch 66 ONE, TWO, THREE," COUNTED DOROTHY, WITHOUT TIME OR METHOD. my fingers." And Dorothy executed a simple, soundless "melodie" melodie" on the doorstep. Her fingers trailed up, trailed down, remained in one place, and moved automatically up and down. "There!-like that. It's easy as can be. And you keep saying, 'One-two-three one-two-three,' that way. You'll have a lovely time, Wallie. It's fun-er-I mean I guess I should like it if my legs wouldn't go." "When shall I begin?" inquired Wallie, no longer in doubt. The serpent had trailed up, trailed down, his little moral nature in the wake of Dorothy's trailing fingers. There was the first small smudge on his little white soul. "To-morrow morning, half past ten. You must praxit half an hour-don't you go to cheating, Wallie!" virtuous Dorothy thus severely. So it was arranged, and the burden of practising slipped from Dorothy's shoulders forthwith. She had hired a praxy. The name was her own, a natural offspring of the relic of her babyhood-praxit. She had never heard of a proxy, so she did not know how near she had happened upon appropriateness. She went home and turned the mother-face round again. There would be no need now to hide it, for Wallie would be the one looked at, and probably he would not mind. He was useder to mother-faces, for Wallie had a live one. The plan worked beautifully, except on Fräulein days. The praxy was not practicable then. Dorothy relinquished her first wild impulse to carry the wickedness even to that adventurous limit, and went quickly in to Fräulein on the first day. She had forgotten that the mother-face and Grandmother Mary would both be there. One would smile and smile the sad way, and the other would knit deafly and peacefully. After the lesson Grandmother Mary would hold up her little silver trumpet for Fräulein to say, "Yes-oh yes, she has her lesson sehr wohl gelearned!" and Grandmother Mary would smile the glad way. It was rather worse than Dorothy had expected. Fräulein sighed all the way through the lesson, till it seemed to Dorothy her blundering little fingers played sighs instead of notes. She did not look at Fräulein at all -at Grandmother Mary-at the mother-face. There were so many places not to look! It was with a sigh of pure relief that Dorothy slid off the high stool at the lesson's end. "Fräulein," she murmured, ingratiatingly, trying not to look anywhere, "won't you please to-to say weather-things in my grandmother's trumpet to-day? She's-very fond o' the weather." For something told the child that in the kindness of her heart Fräulein, unadvised, would say the usual thing to Grandmother Mary, and even to Dorothy's hardened little nature it seemed dreadful to lie through an ear-trumpet. It is problematical how long the plan might have worked if the praxy had not been taken sick. He failed to appear one day to trail lean, aimless little fingers over the keyboard of Dorothy's piano. Dorothy waited in vain. Then she hurried to Sunny Lane the short way, through a loose board in Grandmother Mary's back-yard fence. This was an occasion for short cuts. "He's awful sick," was the answer to her eager question, and she noted instantly the anxious look on Wallie's mother-face. Ohoh, she hoped not awful sick Could sheyes, she could go in there an' see him. He'd been callin' for her right along. Wallie's pale little face was not pale any longer. It was blazing with fever, and Dorothy had an odd premonition that it might set fire to the pillow if some one did not put it out. She stood a little aloof from the bed in an agony of conflicting emotions-she did not feel acquainted with this Wallie. One of the emotions was guilt. At the instant of squeezing through the loose board a startling possibility had come home to Dorothy - if Wallie died she was "to blamed "! blamed"! He was stricken for his wickedness, and it was her wickedness. She hadhad pollutened Wallie. Grandmother Mary had explained pollutened once in a story-book. "Are you going to die?" Dorothy found voice suddenly, but it was not her own voice. "Yes," came readily from the blazing spot, "but I'd just as lives. I always wanted to wear white pants. Only "-he turned a little on the pillow, and the danger of conflagration increased-" only I hope they'll be long ones to cover up my legs. Then if I limped- You don't know, do you, 'bout angels limping? I shouldn't s'pose so, should you? I'd rather not limp; still, if they were good, long-" "They'll train," interrupted Dorothy, eagerly. She could not have told how she knew, but there was no hesitation in her mind. They would train. "Then nobody 'll see," Wallie murmured, comforted. But a new thought hurried into his feverish brain. Oh yes, he had been going to ask her that when she came. "S'posen I see Her, what shall I say? If she asks me, you know?" "See-who?" quivered Dorothy, but she knew he meant the mother-face. If he saw the mother-face what should he say? "Maybe She'll ask me, me, 'How's my little girl gettin' 'long with her praxitin' now'days? What shall I say?" There was unconscious reproach in the weary little voice of the praxy. He would rather have his wickedness fairly shared. It wasn't all his. golden gate. If Wallie saw Her, and She asked- But perhaps he would not see Her at all. There was sudden relief to Dorothy in the thought that if there were Sunny Lanes and Avenues up there there would be fences between, too, and all of the boards would be tight. Wallie would never think, in the humbleness of his little soul, to limp round the corner. So he might never see "Oh, I'm 'fraid he will! I'm 'fraid he will!" she groaned inwardly. The relief was short-lived. "Don't you feel a little better now?" she asked, aloud, in her intense anxiety. "Oh-oh no; just a little worse," sighed the praxy, with gentle pride. He had never "Oh, don't tell her! Don't tell her, Wal- had anything to be proud of before. lie!" pleaded, in anguish, Dorothy. "All-all right, I won't." For even in For even in Sunny Lane and down close to the Great Brink one may remember to be a gentleman. But, oh, how he would rather tell Her! Then to Dorothy came in a flash the awfulness of not telling Her. For that would be-would be would be a lie! You never tell lies in heaven after you have died. The Then she must take stringent measures. She must appeal to some one to come and cure him quick while there was enough time. There was Grandmother Mary's doctor "I must go now," Dorothy said, briskly. With something definite to do she shook off the paralysis of dread that had seemed to be creeping over her. "I'll be back again. I'm going to get-to see about something. And, the Footman Angel would turn you out o' the Wallie-Wallie-" "What say?" weakly. "You needn't ever be my praxy any more." "Course not. They play on harps in heav-" Dorothy broke in hastily: "I've decided it's kind of a lie. You needn't ever be it again. Good-by." And she was gone. At the telephone at Grandmother Mary's she demanded Doctor Travers. He had cured Grandmother Mary a great many times, papa once, and herselfwell, he would have cured Dorothy if she had ever been sick. He could cure anybody. Only he ought to do it quick this time "Oh, hurry-please hurry!" Dorothy shrilled into the transmitter, or maybe Wallie 'll die! . . .. What? Isn't he there yet? Tell him it's me-Dorothy. The one that he brought pep'mints to that time. If he knows it's me. . . . What? Oh, I don't dare to wait, I'm so 'fraid the Lord 'll get there first! Please ask him to hurry up quick quick. . . no, it isn't me, it's Wallie. . . . What? Oh, it's you -you're there! You'll come right off, won't you? It's the littlest house in Sunny Lane. You won't let him die, will you? He'd just as lives as not, but don't let him. . . . I'll-I'll be ever so much obliged. I'll go right to praxiting. . . . What? Oh, on the piano. You know praxiting on the piano? It's awful, but I'll do it-I won't hire a praxy any more if you'll cure Wallie, so he won't meet my mother in heaven and tell her. He'd have to tell her if she asked, "How's my little girl getting 'long?' because the lie part of you doesn't go to heaven. So he'd have to answer right out, I'm sorry, ma'am, but she's been hiring a praxy,' and-and, oh, please don't let Wallie die!" A sob crept into the transmitter after the torrent of eager little words. But Dorothy climbed over the sob and went on. "He's it, you know-the praxy. He makes a beautiful one, Wallie does. Perhaps it's his legs-they don't go. You just as lives praxit when your legs don't go, I suppose. But when they do-" another sob crept in. Dorothy dropped the receiver and sank down in a little soft heap SHE DID NOT KNOW HOW LONG SHE STAYED THERE. |