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 is a lot of smoke! Oh, I don't see how he can stand it! There, he has come down for another pailful. There doesn't seem to be anybody at home and the house is all locked up so he couldn't get in for anything to carry water. See, there come the children. Oh, it's their own house and their mother is away; that is why they were crying so.

"There, I believe he's got it out now. My! but he's all smoked up, and I guess he burned his hand; but he got it put out—he put it out all by himself! Isn't he splendid!" Marjorie was leaning forward and looking eagerly.

"And you don't hate him?" said the Dream, quietly.

Marjorie looked at him, her eyes full of tears. "Just think," she said, "I've been hating him for hours!"

"Yes," said the Dream, "you have."

"But I didn't know—I couldn't know."

"But you assumed to know enough to make you hate him."

"It was I who was dreadful," said Marjorie in an awed voice.

"Took down the road and see another reason," said the Dream.