as Jenny, who had suffered most by it, generously interceded for her.

When Tooney was allowed to leave the sick-room and come downstairs again, it was found that her "Sissy Jenny" had risen greatly in her estimation, and even bid fair to rival "Sissy Netta," who rejoiced at the change almost as much as Jenny herself did. Netta had become so fond of Jenny, in spite of her "peepy eyes," that she wanted every one else to be the same. As for the "governess manner" to which she had formerly objected, either she had ceased to observe it, or as was more likely -it had disappeared along with the self-conceit that had largely formed it.

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CHAPTER XII.

SAVED BY BOB.

NE fine summer evening, as Jenny sat at an open window busily crocheting, Tooney came running

into the room, saying, "Jenny, I wants you to come and take a walk in the meadows with me." Tooney was five years old now; she had attained to the dignity of using the personal pronoun by this time, but still used her verbs in a most arbitrary manner, quite scorning to make them agree with their nominatives.

"I am in a hurry finishing this collar, lovey. I wish you would ask Netta to go with you instead."

"I wanted us all to come; but Netta's boot hurts her, so she can't. Do come, Jenny-meadows is so nice."

Jenny looked wistfully at the collar, which she was doing for her aunt, and wished to have ready to

present the following week, when they were all to go to the island; and then she looked at Tooney's pleading face, and felt that she could not resist it.

"Do come!" Tooney urged again, when she did not answer at once.

There had been a time when Jenny would have told her that little girls must not be troublesome when their elders were busy, and that she would have to do without a walk in the meadows for that evening, as Netta could not go with her.

But she understood the law of kindness better now, and had learned that the great sacrifices to which God's children are sometimes called can only be made by those who have prepared themselves for it by daily denial of self in little things. Rising at once, she said:

Run, then, and bring my hat, while I put this work away."

Off ran Tooney, radiant with pleasure; and soon she came scampering back with her own white sunbonnet on her head and Jenny's hat dangling in her hand by the strings.

"You're a dear good old Jenny, and I loves you ever so!" she exclaimed, as she watched Jenny arrange her curls neatly under her hat.

"As well as you love Netta ?" Jenny could not forbear inquiring, though she was ashamed of herself for asking the question, and felt reproved for it, when the child answered sedately, "Sissy Netta's

Sissy Netta, and you's you, and I loves both of you."

Jenny knew that this ought to content her, and it did, and made her very thankful, for she remembered the time when Tooney did not love her, and would have refrained from any walk, no matter how much desired, rather than have taken it in her company.

But there was another subject on which she had long felt a curiosity, which she thought this would be a good time to gratify.

'Tooney, do you remember the time you were ill, how you were always talking of 'Jenny's corners'—what did you mean by that?"

Tooney contracted her brow in thought for a moment, and then she gave a merry laugh, and answered: "Long ago, when I was a silly little thing, and didn't know any better, I heard papa and mamma talking about you coming home from grandmamma's; and mamma said you would be better at home to get your corners rubbed off; so I thought you must have corners sticking out all over you that would always be knocking against people. And truly I thought that would not be a nice sort of sister to have in the house."

"What did mamma mean ?" Tooney asked after a little a question that Jenny had just been studying in her own mind, so she was able to answer it pretty correctly.

"She did not mean what you thought, Tooney; but I think she must have meant something very like it."

Tooney opened her blue eyes in surprise, and Jenny went on: "You know, if everybody was made square, as they went along everybody would always be knocking against everybody else. So, to avoid this, people are all made round. But very few people are quite round at first: they have to grow round by degrees from rubbing against other people; and if they have nobody to rub against, of course they remain rough."

"In course they do," assented Tooney from under her sun-bonnet. "Is it a parable, Jenny?

"If you like to call it one, lovey. I suppose mamma thought grandmamma and Aunt Lizzie are so round themselves that I would never have a chance of rubbing smooth against them."

"I s'poses she thought you had got set up and bumptious, living with grown-up people, and that you'd be better at home for us to take the conceit out of you.'

Jenny was a little mortified at Tooney's straightforward explanation, but she could not help laughing heartily at it, nevertheless. And when Tooney added, immediately afterwards, "But you're not a bit set up now; guess your corners are all rubbed away long ago," Jenny was more than satisfied.

Jenny felt very happy as she strolled along with

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