one knows that better than I, my dear, or would like more to make it up to you."
Betsey moved closer and smiled up at her gratefully.
"You do make it up to me," she said.
David, who was lying stretched out at Miss Miranda's feet was busy at a task of his own. It seemed that he was a persistent boy who would never lay aside a piece of work until every detail that he could think of had been added to make it complete. He had fetched some clay from the far end of the garden and was modeling the frustum of a pyramid and those three confusing portions into which it could be divided. Betsey watched him idly, quite content that he should have the labor and she the benefit. He demonstrated them with a flourish on the smooth rim of the pool.
"You make it so clear," remarked Miranda, "that I almost understand it myself, although I had forgotten it ten years ago."
"Your father must know all about such things," David said rather wistfully; "it discourages me to think of how much he knows. Do you suppose he would care to have to have—any one help him in his shop, just to sharpen tools and screw bolts and run errands?"
"He needs some one like that very greatly," Miss Miranda answered. "As a rule he likes to do his
