ment in question. "Look at that Italian woman with the bundle of clothes on her head. And those kids crowding about the hokey-pokey man. And that gray-headed old candy-seller with the feather-duster in his hand. And that white hearse with the white angel kneeling on the top and that line of bareheaded Dago mourners marching along just as you'd see them in Naples or Ancona. And look at that wagon-load of crated geese that have just come from the Ganesvoort Market, with their necks craned out between the slats. Why, those poor things are fighting for liberty just about the same as I've been fighting for it!"
"And about as effectively," remarked Uncle Chandler.
"Well, whose funeral is it, anyway?" demanded Teddie, with her first touch of impatience. "This happens to be my show, and I happen to be running it in my own way. I know what's ahead of me, and I'm going straight for it."
Teddie's uncle was able to smile at the uncompromising ardor of youth. But there
