her arms he cuddled up to her breast and looked up into her face.
“Nice monkey! Nice monkey!” she crooned, kissing his funny head. “Oh, I do love little animal things.”
He was evidently glad to get to the fire, and when she sat down and held him on her knee he looked from her to Becky with mingled interest and appreciation.
“He IS plain-looking, miss, ain’t he?” said Becky.
“He looks like a very ugly baby,” laughed Sara. “I beg your pardon, monkey; but I’m glad you are not a baby. Your mother
at the French class afterward. “Do you think he is a Chinee? The geography says the Chinee men are yellow.”
“No, he is not Chinese,” Sara whispered back; “he is very ill. Go on with your exercise, Lottie. `Non, monsieur. Je n’ai pas le canif de mon oncle.’”
That was the beginning of the story of the