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THE MONMAL. 15 AN ORPHANS’ HOME ROMANCE. Molly sat by the window in the big, noisy playroom, a solitary figure in the midst of the roar and tumult. Of all the thirty girls romping so joyously there Molly seemed to be the only one who had any worries at all. But she was worried. There was not a girl in that room, not even homely old Jane, who didn’t have a fellow. And Molly, Molly Evans, with her black curls and her nice blue eyes, couldn’t even get a boy to look at her. It just was not fair. Molly had been brooding for days over the matter, and in all her nine years of hard struggles she had never had any thing worry her as this did. Why couldn’t she get a fellow? Why didn’t the boys send offerings to her as they did to the other girls, who weren’t half so nice looking as she? Was it because she was good in school? Did they think she was a smarty? That couldn’t be, either, because only yesterday little Johnny Swan son had brought Maggie a big bag of candy hearts and had yelled out, “ Bill wants to know if you’ll be his girl.’’ And Maggie was awfully smart. “ I wonder if there’s anything very queer about me,” sighed Molly miserably as she gazed out into the yard, where the boys were playing. Her eyes wandered over the crowd, now singling out one girl’s fellow, now another’s. Now and then she gazed for a moment longer at a slim, active boy with a wild shock of wilder red hair. “ Let me see, Who is Radish’s girl” It ain’t Nora. She’s Oly’s. It it Ruth’ Nope, ‘tain’t her. That’s funny. I ’m sure he has one. I can’t think . Lot of good it does to think about other girls’ fellows anyhow,” she added disconsolately, and got up reluctantly in reply to the insistent summons of the first bell. All the while that she was washing and cleaning up for sup per, her mind was constantly flitting back to the thought of Tim’s girl. But by bed time she had gradually forgotten about her many troubles. Over in the boys’ cottage after supper that same evening, a carroty headed youngster sat hunched down in one comer of the room. Not all the insistence of the other boys, who wanted him to join a game of knife pitching, could stir him out of his unusual apathy. Ordinarily nothing in the world would have pleased Tim Dennis quite so much as a good game of pitching knives into the