For I well knew that if my aunt did not make her home with me she would go to live with my cousin Roger, in which case codicils might show themselves upon that aforesaid will.

And, too, aside from all mercenary interests, I had, though not exactly affection, a good deal of reverence and respect for the lady in question.

She was my mother's youngest sister, a widow of long standing, and a woman of strong and noble nature.

And so it came about that, after a serious talk over the matter, Gladys and I concluded to accept this unwelcome dispensation of Fate, and install my aunt as a permanent member of our household.

Now this was very unselfish and praiseworthy on my wife's part, and I want her to have full credit for it.

Gladys was not of a mercenary mind, and would gladly have relinquished all claim to the least portion of my aunt's money rather than have an outsider in our small happy family.

But when she saw that I felt it a duty to consent to my aunt's request, she bravely put aside her own wishes and consulted only mine.

"Perhaps she 'll be more fun than we think," said my wife, hopefully. "Molly Millarkey is such a funny name; surely anybody with that name must be gay and amusing."

"But Millarkey was her husband's name, you know," said I. "She was born Molly Loftus, and that name really suits her better, for she is a tall, spare woman of great dignity and reserve. I don't want to deceive you, Gladys. My aunt is not of a cheery, affable nature. She is very conservative; and, too, she is somewhat provincial, having lived for many years alone in her country home."

"Well," said Gladys, cheerfully, "I'll be so nice to her that she can't help being nice to me"; and as I had great faith in my wife's powers, I quite believed her assertion.

A few weeks later Aunt Millarkey arrived.

She was not an ill-looking woman. Though of a tall, gaunt frame, she had a high-bred, patrician face, which wore a never-changing expression of calm repose.

She was generous and most kind-hearted, and but for her extreme seriousness would have proved very good company.

Gladys tried conscientiously to entertain her, and Aunt Molly tried to respond to my

wife's advances; but there was, somehow, a lack of congeniality between the two.

Lovely Peg evinced a decided antipathy toward the newcomer, and remarked, "No, no," with distinct emphasis whenever the good lady attempted to make friends with her.

"THERE's only one thing the matter with Aunt Molly," said Gladys, thoughtfully, when we were alone one evening, “and that is, she has no sense of humor. At first I thought she was grumpy and sour, but she is n't at all. She is only serious-minded-so much so that she can't see the funny side of anything. I believe the sense of humor was entirely left out of her make-up."

"You're right," I answered. "When Jack Farland said such funny things the other night, Aunt Molly did n't even smile, and I'm sure it was because she did n't see the point of the jokes."

"I know," said Gladys; "and when Peggy says and does such comical little things, Aunt Molly never sees anything funny about them."

"Lovely Peg has her own ideas of humor," said I, "and perhaps it is not to be wondered at that Aunt Molly does n't see anything exquisitely witty in having her face brushed with a whisk-broom, which is one of your daughter's pet jokes."

"Oh, I don't mean that," said my wife, hastily; "but to-day I was telling Aunt Molly of the time Peg first saw the ocean, and she said, 'Oh, see ze great big soda-water!' and Aunt Molly never moved a muscle of her face. But I suppose she can't help it. A sense of humor is born in people, like a talent for music or painting."

"But sometimes," said I, "people have latent talents-so latent that they don't even know themselves that they possess them. Perhaps Aunt Molly has a latent sense of humor that nothing has ever yet aroused."

"I don't believe it," said Gladys; "but if she has, I wish it might be developed, for I could really be very fond of her if we could have some fun together and she would n't always look so serious and solemn."

"Gladys,” said I, "let us try to develop that latent sense in Aunt Millarkey. You, my dear, have a pretty wit, and I am something of a wag myself. Let us try rationally and systematically to bring the smile of appreciation to our aunt's face."

"I have tried," said Gladys, wrinkling her fair brow, "and it did n't seem to do any good. But we 'll try again, together, and

I drained my wit to the very lees in my endeavors to bring a smile to my aunt's solemn face. Gladys fairly scintillated with repartee and airy persiflage. But Aunt Millarkey listened to it all with an expression on her face half wonderment and half pity. After a few weeks of this ineffectual effort on our part, Gladys and I discussed the matter again, and as we talked and thought it over together a new notion struck me.

"Gladys," said I, "our theories have been all wrong. We've been trying to draw water from an empty well, and of course we 've failed. How absurd to try to appeal to Aunt Millarkey's sense of humor when she has n't any, latent or otherwise! Now, how much wiser it would be for us to endeavor to implant a sense of humor in her; to inoculate her, so to speak, with a bacillus of wit, and then, by judicious encouragement and stimulation, insure its development."

"That's a fine theory," said Gladys, musingly, "but do you suppose it would be practical?"

"We can try it," I replied, "and if we fail, there's no harm done. And even if we succeed only to a slight degree, it will be an improvement on the present state of things. And there's this in our favor," I went on: "we can teach Aunt Molly the more easily as she has nothing to unlearn. Her mind is as innocent of a funny idea as a sheet of blank paper, and it only remains for us to write thereon the 'First Lesson in Humor.' Sounds like 'First Aid to the Injured,' does n't it?"

"What shall the first lesson be?" asked Gladys, now thoroughly interested in the plan.

"It must be some simple, obvious joke," I replied. "Almost any joke will do. And then we must try to make Aunt Molly see the point of it."

"Well," said my wife, decidedly, "that must be done by repetition. I find that Peggy will learn a thing only by hearing it over and over again. So, after we decide upon our first joke, we must say it to Aunt Molly, and to each other in her presence, morning, noon, and night, at the table, you know; and then I'll say it to her at intervals through the day, and you can say it a few times each evening."

"But, my dear!" said I, aghast at this outlook.

"There is no 'but' about it," said Gladys,

"That is a question not to be hastily considered," I replied. "Much depends on the nature of the first seed implanted in this virgin soil."

It must not be a pun," said Gladys, "for Sydney Hook, or somebody, said that a pun is the lowest form of wit."

"I know," said I; "but Theodore Smith, or somebody, responded that consequently a pun is the foundation of all wit; and so I think a good pun would be the very best thing for Aunt Molly's rudimentary instruction."

"Perhaps you are right," admitted Gladys. "What do you think is the best pun you ever heard?"

"Now, Gladys, we must n't be narrowminded or self-opinionated in this thing. The question is not, what do I think the best pun, but what is the best pun according to the tests of long life and usage. And I am sure that the survival of the fittest is shown unmistakably in 'When is a door not a door? When it 's ajar.'"

"But that's a conundrum," objected Gladys.

"No matter," said I, firmly. "It's a good, solid joke, and a pun at that, and if it were once mastered by a beginner, it would pave the way for many a more complex and subtle witticism. As to its being a conundrum, so much the better, for either of us can ask it, and the other can reply."

"Well, we 'll give it a fair trial," said Gladys, "and if it does n't seem effective we can try another. Let's begin to-morrow morning at breakfast."

The next morning, as I sat at our pretty breakfast-table,-Gladys opposite, smiling and charming; Lovely Peg on my right, humming a little tune to herself, and carelessly mistaking her shaddock for a fingerbowl; Aunt Molly on my left, with a demeanor about as gay as that of an old-fashioned tombstone,-I opened our prearranged conversation.

"No, dear; the door is ajar," I said. "See? Ajar-not quite shut, you know."

"Oh, yes," said Gladys; "you mean it is really ajar, but it sounds as if you said it was a jar, such as we keep pickles in. Ah, haoh, ho, how funny that is!"

Aunt Millarkey looked bewildered, but said nothing, and though Gladys and I had n't hoped for much encouragement at our first effort, still we could n't help feeling pleased at the bewilderment.

Before breakfast was over, Gladys said, "Bert, I wish you 'd tell me that joke again; it was so funny."

I repeated it, and explained it even more fully than before, Gladys asking pertinent and intelligent questions concerning it; and this time Aunt Molly smiled.

I feared the smile might have been induced by our hilarity, and not by the joke itself; but still it was a step in the right direction, and I went away to my business with hope in my heart. When I returned home, Gladys, fairly beaming with delight, met me at the gate.

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'Bert," she cried, "our success is assured. The seed has taken root, and we 've only to fan the flame to produce a mighty, rushing torrent."

"Good!" I replied. "I hope the peach crop won't be a failure. But tell me all about it."

"Well, I repeated the joke at intervals of two hours during the day, sometimes to Aunt Molly, sometimes to Lovely Peg, and sometimes as if I were just talking to myself. I would have tried it on Norah, but I was afraid she'd think I'd lost my mind. And, do you know, the last time I asked Aunt Molly the question, she repeated the answer herself, and she chuckled-really chuckled, Bert! There, now, what do you think of that?"

"I think it's fine, little woman, and I'm sure victory is already perching itself on our banners. But if our pupil is advancing so rapidly, we must get another joke ready. You know, teachers always have to study to keep ahead of their pupils."

"Yes, I know," said Gladys; "but we must n't go too fast. You jar the door a few times this evening, and to-morrow we'll begin on the second lesson. I have it all ready."

"What is it?" I demanded.

ment's thought. "It's better to stick to the old standards for the present, and later on we can use more modern jokes, and even the brilliant jests that are original with ourselves."

The next day we called all our powers of subtlety and tact to our assistance and taught Aunt Molly the Cochin-China joke. It required elaborate and oft-repeated explanations, and we were hindered a bit by the fact that we kept Cochin-China chickens, and somehow those fowls mixed themselves up with the joke in Aunt Millarkey's mentality until her tutors were well-nigh discouraged.

But resolution and repetition will accomplish wonders, and we resolved afresh when we were alone, and repeated afresh when we were with Aunt Molly, until-well, there could be no doubt about it-a sense of humor was growing in the mind of our solemn and serious aunt.

What a triumph it was for Gladys when, one night at dinner, Aunt Millarkey (after several hints and promptings from my wife) stammered out: " Bert, what does an old lady in the middle of the sea resemble?"

"Like,'" corrected Gladys.

"Yes," said Aunt Molly; "what does an old lady in the middle of the sea like?" "No, aunty," said Gladys, patiently; "you mean what is she like?"

"Oh, yes," said Aunt Molly, eager as a child; "what is an old lady in the middle of the sea like?"

I hesitated, uncertain whether a profound ignorance or a wrong answer would better further our cause, when Gladys helped me out by saying gently: "Tell him, Aunt Molly."

"Like to be drowned," exclaimed my aunt, with such a beam of merriment in her eye as even a man with a mote in his own eye might see clearly.

"Ha, ha!" I roared, and Gladys chimed in with her pretty laugh, and Aunt Molly gave her peculiar chuckle, with which we were already proudly becoming familiar.

After this our pupil fairly forged ahead.

She learned to tell glibly that birds in their little nests agree because they'd fall out if they did n't. She came to understand why an elephant is like a brickbat; was perfectly cognizant of a hen's reason for crossing the road; and could tell correctly and on the instant what makes more noise than a pig under a gate. And how she did enjoy this knowledge!

The chuckle with which she at first dis

pensed these precious bits of information deepened to a guffaw; the smile broadened to a wide grin; the titter swelled to a peal of laughter.

Lovely Peg began to cultivate her aunt's acquaintance; for what child-nature could be proof against such a merry, rollicking aunty?

As the summer wore away the tyro waded out into deeper waters.

She grasped the fact that a night-key is like the full moon, because there's a b in both. She told, with all the cleverness of a raconteur, the story of the man who, when they cabled oversea to him, "Your motherin-law is dead. Shall we embalm, cremate, or bury?" replied, "Embalm, cremate, and bury; take no chances." And she gleefully described the man with the hat who was like George Washington because he had his hatchet. One evening, as I was coming home, she ran out to the gate to ask me what the difference was between a man who lived at a hotel and had occasional twinges of rheumatism, and a man who was perfectly well, but who lived at home. I gave it up, and she said: "One is well some days and has rheumatism others, and the other is well every day and has a room at his mother's, too." I took pleasure in bringing home books of a humorous character, and within twentyfour hours after their arrival they might have been found on Aunt Molly's readingtable. Foxe's "Book of Martyrs" and volumes of a kindred nature were replaced by the works of Edward Lear and "Mr. Dooley." And these books were read by our aunt with shrieks and roars of merriment.

I remember the night I brought home Eugene Field's "Tribune Primer."

Aunt Millarkey took it from me, and stood under the hall gas-light to look at it a minute, and we could n't get her to come out to dinner. She stood there reading, and rocking herself from side to side with silent laughter, which presently broke into shouts of hilarity.

When we spoke to her, she looked at us unheeding, read another bit from the Primer, and then paced up and down the hall, her gasps for breath alternating with fresh peals of laughter, until we fairly feared for her reason. She laughed until her glasses fell off, her lace collar became awry, hair-pins shot from their places, and the tears rolled down her red and puffed-out cheeks.

It was shortly after this that Aunt Molly began to add to or improve upon the jokes she heard or read.

Her first achievement in this direction was when I asked her which was greater, a locomotive or Queen Elizabeth, and as she could n't guess, I told her that a locomotive was a wonder, but Queen Elizabeth was a Tudor.

"Yes," said she; "but to the locomotive you must add the tender."

This quick comprehension and the dawning of an inventive genius amazed me, and I hastened to tell Gladys of our aunt's remarkable progress.

"It's wonderful," said my wife. "I never saw anything like it. Her sense of humor is growing so fast that even now she can't wear her last month's jokes."

One evening I read this joke aloud from my paper: "What made the fly fly? Because the spider spied her.'"

"Pooh!" said Aunt Molly, "it's easy to say things like that. What made the quail quail? For fear the woodpecker would peck her. What made the tart tart? Because she did n't want to let the baker bake her. What made-"

"Stop, Aunt Molly!" I cried. "Where did you read those things?"

"Nowhere," said she. "I made them up. They 're as good as the one you read."

And so they were, and from that time forward Aunt Molly received no further instructions from us.

Rather, she appropriated the rôle of preceptress herself, and her jests and whimsies, both quoted and original, kept us in an uproar of fun.

And she was no respecter of persons or of occasions. When a dear friend was ill with appendicitis, and in speaking of it we disagreed as to the pronunciation, I consulted the dictionary, but the word was not there.

"I suppose this dictionary was printed before appendicitis was invented," I said.

"Look in the appendix," suggested Aunt Molly, promptly; "where else could you expect to find it?"

And sure enough, there it was.

Again, when we heard of the business. failure of a prominent merchant of our town, and heard, too, that his own interests had been carefully if not very honorably guarded, Aunt Molly exclaimed:

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"When that man failed to make money, he failed to make money!"

The subtlety of this word-play quite stupefied me, and I wondered to what heights of cleverness Aunt Molly would finally attain. But we had little time to wonder.

She whirled us along in the gales of a jocularity that was uncontrollable and irresistible.

We rose in the morning to be thrown into convulsions of irrepressible mirth; we retired at night exhausted from innumerable and unconquerable fits of laughter.

To be in Aunt Millarkey's presence meant to be in a constant state of giggling, with frequent spasms and paroxysms of insane mirth.

catastrophe to the peace and dignity of our household and the disposition of our child.

Something must be done, and that quickly, for Aunt Molly was steadily becoming more and more comical, and more incapable of repressing her drollery when occasion required.

And though Gladys and I realized that we were responsible for this awful state of things, yet we felt that we could not endure the consequences, and must avert them, if possible, for the sake of Lovely Peg, as well as for ourselves.

I offered to take up with her the study of folk-lore, but she said she preferred jokelore!

She told Lovely Peg such funny stories and made her laugh so heartily and continuously that we feared the child would become a driveling idiot. And when callers came in. the evening, they immediately grew so uproarious over Aunt Molly's fun that Peggy was awakened and insisted on coming downstairs to see aunty. Then, imbued with the spirit of the hour, she laughed until she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, only to be wakened again by fresh snickers and shrieks. The little dinners for which Gladys was justly famous degenerated into side-splitting affairs at which no one could eat, so screamingly funny were Aunt Molly's continuous witty speeches.

When our specially grave and dignified minister came to call, he had n't been in the house five minutes before he had burst two buttons off his clerical waistcoat; and when he finally went out of the door, it was with a tottering, uncertain step, as of one who had passed through a strong emotional upheaval.

The wedding of a friend was spoiled, from an artistic point of view, because, during the ceremony, Aunt Molly leaned over and whispered to the bride's mother. That good lady vainly endeavored to repress her mirth, and the result was something between a snort and a cackle that set everybody laughing.

Gladys and I were at our wits' end (and we heartily wished Aunt Molly might arrive at hers).

Like Frankenstein, we had voluntarily created a monster that now threatened

But the solution of our difficulty arrived from a most unexpected source. One evening Aunt Millarkey announced that she had something funny to tell us. This was by no means an unusual or improbable statement,

countenance these over-hilarious proceedings, yet such was the fascination of Aunt Molly's fun that it dominated our sense of duty, and we weakly surrendered, saying, "What is it?" and settled back in our chairs in anticipation of mirth exquisite even to the verge of pain.

But, instead of a new conundrum or a comical story, Aunt Molly remarked, in an impressive whisper:

"I'm going to marry the minister."

The grave and even awe-struck expression in her eyes left no room for any doubt of the sincerity of her words, and as the situation dawned upon Gladys and me, we broke into half-horrified laughter.

It was indeed funny to think of Aunt Molly unequally yoked together with an austere and dignified clergyman-and especially with Dr. Plunkett, who was the very apotheosis of clerical dignity and solemnity, and who, since the death of his wife many years ago, had renounced all social claims save those imposed on him by his pastoral duties.

"I told you it was funny," said Aunt Millarkey, still with that half-scared look on her face, and this convulsed us afresh.

"Is he willing?" asked Gladys, at last, wiping her eyes.