Athalie

One evening in particular Athalie remembered. She had been running her

legs off playing hounds-and-hares across country from the salt-hay

stacks to the chestnut ridge, and she had come in after sunset to find

her mother sewing in her own bedroom, her brother and sisters studying

their lessons in the sitting-room where her father also sat reading

the local evening paper.

Supper was over, but Athalie went to the kitchen and presently

returned to her mother's room carrying a bowl of bread and milk and

half a pie.

Here on the faded carpet at her mother's feet, full in the lamplight

she sat her down and ate in hungry silence while her mother sewed.

Athalie seldom studied. A glance at her books seemed to be enough for

her. And she passed examinations without effort under circumstances

where plodders would have courted disaster.

Rare questions from her mother, brief replies marked the meal. When

she had satisfied her hunger she jumped up, ran downstairs with the

empty dishes, and came slowly back again,--a slender, supple figure

with tangled hair curling below her shoulders, dirty shirt-waist,

soiled features and hands, and the ragged blue skirt of a sailor suit

hanging to her knees.

"Your other sailor suit is washed and mended," said her mother,

smiling at her child in tatters.

Athalie, her gaze remote, nodded absently. After a moment she lifted

her steady dark blue eyes: "A boy kissed me, mamma," she remarked, dropping cross-legged at her

mother's feet.

"Don't kiss strange boys," said her mother quietly.

"I didn't. But why not?"

"It is not considered proper."

"Why?"

Her mother said: "Kissing is a common and vulgar practice except in

the intimacy of one's own family."

"I thought so," nodded Athalie; "I soaked him for doing it."

"Who was he?"

"Oh, it was that fresh Harry Eldon. I told him if he ever tried to get

fresh with me again I'd kill him.... Mamma?"

"Yes?"

"All that about poor old Mr. Manners isn't true, is it?"

Her mother smiled. The children had been taught to leave a morsel on

their plates "for manners"; and to impress it upon them their mother

had invented a story about a poor old man named Manners who depended

upon what they left, and who crept in to eat it after they had retired

from table.

So leaving something "for Manners" had been thoroughly and

successfully inculcated, until the habit was formed. And now Athalie

was the last of the children to discover the gentle fraud practised

upon her.