Shame mantled the brow of Solon Denney.
"In short," concluded Mrs. Potts, "I regret to say that your paper is not yet one that I could wish to put into the hands of my little Roscoe."
Little Roscoe coughed sympathetically and remarked, before he lost his chance for a word: "The boy of to-day is the man of to-morrow. Parents cannot be too careful about what their little ones will read during the long winter evenings that will soon be upon us." He coughed again when he had finished.
"The press is a mighty lever of civilization," continued the mother, with an approving glance at her boy, "and you, Mr. Denney, should feel proud indeed of your sacred mission to instruct and elevate these poor people. Of course I shall have other duties to occupy my time—"
Solon had glanced up brightly, but gloom again overspread his face as she continued:—
"Yet I shall make it not the least of my works—if a poor weak woman may so presume—to help you in correcting certain faults of style and taste in your sheet, for it goes each week into many homes where the light must be sorely needed, and surely you and I would not be adequately sensible of our responsibilities if we continued to let it go as it is. Would we?" And again she glowed upon Solon with the condescending sweetness of a Sabbath-school teacher to the littlest boy in her class.
But now we both breathed more freely, for she
