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Jack Has a Mystery.
"What is the matter?
Does your head ache ?" asked Jill, one evening in March, observing that Jack sat with his head in his hands, an attitude which, with him, meant either pain or perplexity.
"No; but I'm bothered.

I want some money, and I don't see how I can earn it," he answered, tumbling his hair about, and frowning darkly at the fire.
"How much ?" and Jill's ready hand went to the pocket where her little purse lay, for she felt rich with several presents lately made her.
"Two seventy-five.

No, thank you, I won't borrow." "What is it for ?" "Can't tell." "Why, I thought you told me everything." "Sorry, but I can't this time.

Don't you worry; I shall think of something." "Couldn't your mother help ?" "Don't wish to ask her." "Why! can't _she_ know ?" "Nobody can." "How queer! Is it a scrape, Jack ?" asked Jill, looking as curious as a magpie.
"It is likely to be, if I can't get out of it this week, somehow." "Well, I don't see how I can help if I'm not to know anything;" and Jill seemed rather hurt.
"You can just stop asking questions, and tell me how a fellow can earn some money.