T was a quarter of nine when Clarence entered the cloak-room, jerked off his stocking-cap, and with benumbed fingers fumbled clumsily at the single button on his little red sweater. He glowered menacingly at the gray astrakhan overcoat and cap hanging from his own favorite hook. A second later the astrakhan coat landed in a far corner, the cap dropped among a pile of rubbers, and the thin red sweater dangled limply from the hook. Clarence hesitated a minute to wipe his nose on the sweater's sleeve and then shuffled into the big sunny school

room.

A happy bunch of early comers were crowded around the kindergarten table watching Miss Williams sort out the seat

work for the day. Clarence thumped into his seat and became a silent, morose spectator. He did not feel like talking, he longed to punch some one's head; things had gone bad with him this Monday morning. He was glad his grandmother had had to leave so early for her day's work. But he was sure she could never have made him do it-not if she had insisted on walking all the way to school with him. He would not wear that old plush coat. Never! No one in this world could get him to wear a girl's plush coat-not even teacher. No sixyear-old boy would wear girls' clothes. Just because people his grandmother washed for kept on giving her crazy old clothes was no sign he was going to wear them. He would freeze first.

He watched Miss Williams's pretty face

as she bent over her work and chatted pleasantly with the little folks. Once she glanced up, caught Clarence's eye, and smiled sweetly at him. A delicious thrill swept over the youngster. Since that wonderful September morning a month before when Clarence had been pushed, a grim, disgusted, and unwilling victim, into Room 1 of the Froebel School, the world had changed for him. He, Clarence Pierson, the acknowledged dirtiest, toughest, and meanest boy in Smoky Row; he, who had bragged near and far that he'd like to see any truant officer catch him; he-that same Clarence Pierson-had never missed a day of school. On that memorable morning Miss Williams had put a caressing hand on Clarence's matted light hair and in the softest of voices had called him

K.S.

you know nuttings? That guy ain't teacher's brother-he's her feller." "Sure," agreed Timothy. "He's her feller. Ain't he, teacher?"

Miss Williams lifted a laughing, rosy face to her questioners.

"No, children. That is just a lawyer friend who is interested in social and economic conditions down in this district."

"Oh!" said Mike, puzzled but quite satisfied.

Clarence went on swinging his legs. He knew all about this business, but he wasn't going to tell. He had heard his grandmother and old Mrs. Brenon talking about it. Teacher's man was named John McCullough, and Mrs. Brenon liked him because he kept her son Bill from

going to marry her, so Clarence was sure he must be her fellow. But he wasn't going to tell on her. He didn't blame her for not letting those kids know all her business. Teacher was a wise one.

The bell rang and in a few minutes six straight rows of bright-eyed first-room youngsters were sitting up erect in their seats singing their cheerful morning greeting. Clarence, in perfect unison with the others, bowed a horrible grimacing good morning to Georgie across the aisle at his left, nodded coldly to Susie at the right, and then poured forth his whole heart in a worshipful song message to his beloved teacher.

Clarence himself did not know how much he loved Miss Williams; he would have licked any urchin who dared in