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could not make up her mind. At all events he had
an air of the city about him,--well-shaven face,

well-trimmed mustache, well-fitting clothes.
Rebecca was a trifle shy at this unexpected encounter,

but there was nothing to be done but explain her
presence, so she asked, "Is the lady of the house

at home?"
"I am the lady of the house at present," said

the stranger, with a whimsical smile. "What can I
do for you?"

"Have you ever heard of the--would you like, or
I mean--do you need any soap?" queried Rebecca

"Do I look as if I did?" he responded
unexpectedly.

Rebecca dimpled. "I didn't mean THAT; I have
some soap to sell; I mean I would like to introduce

to you a very remarkable soap, the best now
on the market. It is called the"--

"Oh! I must know that soap," said the gentleman
genially. "Made out of pure vegetable fats,

isn't it?"
"The very purest," corroborated Rebecca.

"No acid in it?"
"Not a trace."

"And yet a child could do the Monday washing
with it and use no force."

"A babe," corrected Rebecca
"Oh! a babe, eh? That child grows younger

every year, instead of older--wise child!"
This was great good fortune, to find a customer

who knew all the virtues of the article in advance.
Rebecca dimpled more and more, and at her new

friend's invitation sat down on a stool at his side
near the edge of the porch. The beauties of the

ornamental box which held the Rose-Red were
disclosed, and the prices of both that and the Snow-

White were unfolded. Presently she forgot all
about her silent partner at the gate and was talking

as if she had known this grand personage all her
life.

"I'm keeping house to-day, but I don't live here,"
explained the delightful gentleman. "I'm just on

a visit to my aunt, who has gone to Portland.
I used to be here as a boy. and I am very fond of

the spot."
"I don't think anything takes the place of the

farm where one lived when one was a child,"
observed Rebecca, nearly bursting with pride at having

at last successfully used the indefinitepronoun in
general conversation.

The man darted a look at her and put down his
ear of corn. "So you consider your childhood a

thing of the past, do you, young lady?"
"I can still remember it," answered Rebecca

gravely, "though it seems a long time ago."
"I can remember mine well enough, and a

particularly unpleasant one it was," said the stranger.
"So was mine," sighed Rebecca. "What was

your worst trouble?"
"Lack of food and clothes principally."

"Oh!" exclaimed Rebecca sympathetically,--
"mine was no shoes and too many babies and not

enough books. But you're all right and happy
now, aren't you?" she asked doubtfully, for though

he looked handsome, well-fed, and prosperous, any
child could see that his eyes were tired and his

mouth was sad when he was not speaking.
"I'm doing pretty well, thank you," said the

man, with a delightful smile. "Now tell me, how
much soap ought I to buy to-day?"

"How much has your aunt on hand now?"
suggested the very modest and inexperienced agent;

"and how much would she need?"
"Oh, I don't know about that; soap keeps,

doesn't it?"
"I'm not certain," said Rebecca conscientiously,

"but I'll look in the circular--it's sure to tell;"
and she drew the document from her pocket.

"What are you going to do with the magnificent
profits you get from this business?"

"We are not selling for our own benefit," said
Rebecca confidentially. "My friend who is holding

the horse at the gate is the daughter of a very
rich blacksmith, and doesn't need any money. I

am poor, but I live with my aunts in a brick house,
and of course they wouldn't like me to be a

peddler. We are trying to get a premium for some
friends of ours."

Rebecca had never thought of alluding to the
circumstances with her previous customers, but

unexpectedly she found herself describing Mr. Simpson,
Mrs. Simpson, and the Simpson family; their poverty,

their joyless life, and their abject need of a
banquet lamp to brighten their existence.

"You needn't argue that point," laughed the
man, as he stood up to get a glimpse of the "rich

blacksmith's daughter" at the gate. "I can see that
they ought to have it if they want it, and especially

if you want them to have it. I've known what it was
myself to do without a banquet lamp. Now give me

the circular, and let's do some figuring. How much
do the Simpsons lack at this moment?"

"If they sell two hundred more cakes this month
and next, they can have the lamp by Christmas,"

Rebecca answered, "and they can get a shade by
summer time; but I'm afraid I can't help very much

after to-day, because my aunt Miranda may not like
to have me."

"I see. Well, that's all right. I'll take three
hundred cakes, and that will give them shade and

all."
Rebecca had been seated on a stool very near to

the edge of the porch, and at this remark she made
a sudden movement, tipped over, and disappeared

into a clump of lilac bushes. It was a very short
distance, fortunately, and the amused capitalist picked

her up, set her on her feet, and brushed her off.
"You should never seem surprised when you have

taken a large order," said he; "you ought to have
replied `Can't you make it three hundred and fifty?'

instead of capsizing in that unbusinesslike way."
"Oh, I could never say anything like that!"

exclaimed Rebecca, who was blushing crimson at her
awkward fall. "But it doesn't seem right for you

to buy so much. Are you sure you can afford it?"
"If I can't, I'll save on something else," returned

the jocose philanthropist.
"What if your aunt shouldn't like the kind of

soap?" queried Rebecca nervously.
"My aunt always likes what I like," he returned

"Mine doesn't!" exclaimed Rebecca
"Then there's something wrong with your aunt!"

"Or with me," laughed Rebecca.
"What is your name, young lady?"

"Rebecca Rowena Randall, sir."
"What?" with an amused smile. "BOTH? Your

mother was generous."
"She couldn't bear to give up either of the

names she says."
"Do you want to hear my name?"

"I think I know already," answered Rebecca, with
a bright glance. "I'm sure you must be Mr. Aladdin

in the Arabian Nights. Oh, please, can I run
down and tell Emma Jane? She must be so tired

waiting, and she will be so glad!"
At the man's nod of assent Rebecca sped down

the lane, crying irrepressibly as she neared the
wagon, "Oh, Emma Jane! Emma Jane! we are sold

out!"
Mr. Aladdin followed smilingly to corroborate

this astonishing, unbelievable statement; lifted all
their boxes from the back of the wagon, and taking

the circular, promised to write to the Excelsior
Company that night concerning the premium.

"If you could contrive to keep a secret,--you
two little girls,--it would be rather a nice surprise

to have the lamp arrive at the Simpsons' on Thanksgiving
Day, wouldn't it?" he asked, as he tucked

the old lap robe cosily over their feet.
They gladlyassented, and broke into a chorus of

excited thanks during which tears of joy stood in
Rebecca's eyes.

"Oh, don't mention it!" laughed Mr. Aladdin,
lifting his hat. "I was a sort of commercial traveler

myself once,--years ago,--and I like to see
the thing well done. Good-by Miss Rebecca Rowena!

Just let me know whenever you have anything
to sell, for I'm certain beforehand I shall want it."

"Good-by, Mr. Aladdin! I surely will!" cried
Rebecca, tossing back her dark braids delightedly

and waving her hand.
"Oh, Rebecca!" said Emma Jane in an awe-

struck whisper. "He raised his hat to us, and we
not thirteen! It'll be five years before we're

ladies."
"Never mind," answered Rebecca; "we are the

BEGINNINGS of ladies, even now."
"He tucked the lap robe round us, too,"

continued Emma Jane, in an ecstasy of reminiscence.
"Oh! isn't he perfectly elergant? And wasn't it

lovely of him to buy us out? And just think of
having both the lamp and the shade for one day's

work! Aren't you glad you wore your pink gingham
now, even if mother did make you put on

flannel underneath? You do look so pretty in pink
and red, Rebecca, and so homely in drab and

brown!"
"I know it," sighed Rebecca "I wish I was

like you--pretty in all colors!" And Rebecca
looked longingly at Emma Jane's fat, rosy cheeks;

at her blue eyes, which said nothing; at her neat
nose, which had no character; at her red lips, from

between which no word worth listening to had ever
issued.

"Never mind!" said Emma Jane comfortingly.
"Everybody says you're awful bright and smart, and

mother thinks you'll be better looking all the time
as you grow older. You wouldn't believe it, but I

was a dreadfulhomely baby, and homely right along
till just a year or two ago, when my red hair began

to grow dark. What was the nice man's name?"


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