“Now, excuse me, Harold,” said Marie-Celeste, bristling up a little, “but I don't see why you boys are so afraid of peeping into what you call a girl's book. Of course there are books that tell only about girls that you wouldn't like. To tell the truth, I don't care much for them myself; but if a book ever happens to have a kind of girlish name to it, that settles it at once. Now, suppose it were possible for any one to write a story about me; I presume they would have to give a sort of girl's name to the story; but would that mean that it was all about girls? Well, I guess not;” and Marie-Celeste laughed as she realized how wide such an estimate would fall of the mark. “Chris would be in it, of course, and you and Donald and--” and Marie-Celeste was going to say Ted, but checked herself in time to make an exchange for Mr. Belden--“and Albert. Why, gracious, Harold, come to think of it, I haven't a girl friend this summer--only Miss Dorothy here, if she will excuse me.”