Peggy looked at Graham as if she did not know whether to laugh or be angry. Being Peggy, she, of course, settled the question in favor of the first-named alternative, though even as she dimpled, she told Graham severely that it was nothing to laugh about.

“As I understand it, the tragedy has only been hastened,” said the teasing Graham. “You designed the chicken for the butcher, didn’t you? And now let’s feed this unnatural mother before she gets hungry and eats up the other five.”

The appetite of the yellow hen was not the least impaired by the family disaster. She gobbled down her corn meal with a dispatch which argued indifference to the possibility that there might not be enough left for her offspring. Then while Peggy and Graham made ready a little grave for the victim of maternal clumsiness, the others flocked back to the house discussing the calamity. Reluctantly Ruth resumed her duties, and her sense of resentment grew rapidly, as she listened to the excited chatter of her companions. All this fuss about a dead chicken, and not a word of sympathy for her sufferings. Ruth was rapidly approaching the point of extreme unreasonableness.

A long walk was the first of the festivities scheduled for the eventful last day. The boys had discovered a view that they were very anxious to have the others see, and even Aunt Abigail, who was not a great success as a pedestrian, had decided to go along. Ruth was putting on her wide brimmed shade hat, when a wave of faintness swept over her, and for a minute everything turned black. Then she recovered herself, and saw a white face with unnaturally large eyes staring back at her from the mirror.

“I–I don’t believe I’ll go,” said Ruth in an uncertain voice, in which there was no suggestion of heroism.

“Go?” Amy was down on her hands and knees, looking for a pin in the cracks of the floor. “Of course you’ll go. Don’t be grumpy.”

Grumpy! And after she had endured so much to avoid casting a shadow over the spirits of the party. Ruth frowned on her, but in silence. It seemed to her that she had never before realized the amount of selfishness in the world. Nobody cared what she suffered. Her dearest friends, her own brother were prodigies of inconsiderateness. With an effort she kept back the burning tears of self pity, and tottered down the stairs, prepared to endure the martyrdom of a long walk under the July sun.

“Ruth,” called Peggy from the pantry, “just help me with these sandwiches, will you?” They were coming home for the midday meal, but Peggy had determined to carry along a few sandwiches, as country-grown appetites seemed independent of the limitations of those appetites with which she was best acquainted.

Ruth rose to obey. But her indisposition was becoming more than a match for her will. She was half way across the room, when she halted, swayed, and crumpled up in a little helpless heap. Graham was too late to save her from falling, but he had her in his arms almost as soon as she touched the floor, and carried her to the couch, turning pale himself at the sight of her colorless face.

From all directions the girls came running. As usual, Peggy took command.

“She’s fainted, Graham, that’s all. Bring some water. We must get the sofa cushions out from under her head. Bring that palm-leaf fan, Amy. There, she’s coming to already.”

The eyelids of the forlorn heroine had indeed fluttered encouragingly. A moment later Ruth opened her eyes. As her languid gaze travelled around the circle of faces, she saw consternation written on each one. Peggy patted her hand tenderly.

“Don’t try to speak, darling. You fainted, that’s all.”

“Could you drink a little water, dearie,” coaxed Priscilla, bending over her, glass in hand.

“Here, let me lift her.” Graham rushed forward, thankful for the opportunity to do something, as he found the sense of helplessness characteristic of his sex in all such crises extremely galling.

Ruth felt it incumbent on herself to relieve the general anxiety. “It’s only one of my headaches,” she explained faintly. “I ought to have given up to it. But I hated to spoil Graham’s last day.”

There was a little chorus of mingled disapproval and admiration. “You dear plucky thing!” cried Peggy. “And here I’ve been ordering you around all the morning. Those pan-cakes must have been torture.”

“As if Jack and I wouldn’t have waited over another day!” exclaimed Graham in a tone of disgust. “We’d rather have waited a week, than have you put yourself through like this,” He smoothed her ruffled hair with awkward tenderness, and Amy, carried away by her emotions, fanned so vehemently that she tapped the patient on the nose, and was sharply reprimanded.

The tears Ruth had been holding back all the morning could no longer be restrained. They overran her trembling lids, and streamed down her cheeks. The little murmurs of soothing sympathy were redoubled, though Graham walked off quickly to the window and stood looking out with a stern, fixed gaze, as if the landscape had suddenly become of absorbing interest. But Ruth’s tears were not wrung from her by suffering. They were tears of penitence and honest shame. How dear and kind every one was! How cruelly she had misjudged the world when she had called it inconsiderate. And the course of conduct which in the morning had seemed to her admirable and heroic, suddenly appeared foolish in the extreme. The faint tinge of color showing in her white cheeks was not an indication of returning strength so much as of mortification.

The departure of Jack and Graham was immediately put off till Ruth should be well enough to take part in the fun which was to serve as a climax to the visit. For the remainder of the day, Ruth found herself the centre of attraction in Dolittle Cottage. She lay at ease on the couch, with wet compresses on her forehead. The shutters were closed to keep out the sunshine. Every one walked on tiptoe, and spoke in subdued accents. Even the fly-away Dorothy sought the invalid at frequent intervals to murmur, “Poor Rufie! Poor Rufie,” and to pat Ruth’s arm with a sympathetic little hand. Now that it had gained its point, the headache decreased in severity, but had the pain been far more violent, Ruth would have minded it less than sundry pangs of conscience which would not allow her to forget that she really was undeserving of all this tender consideration.

By the end of the afternoon she was able to sit up and to share in the general excitement which welcomed Amy on her return from the village. Several days before, Amy had carried down a roll of films to be developed at the local photographer’s, and was now bringing back a neat little package of prints. “Oh, the flash-light picture is here, isn’t it?” exclaimed Ruth, to whose chair the package had been brought immediately, while the others stood around awaiting their turn. “I want to see that first.”

Amy looked a trifle discomfited.

“Yes, it’s here,” she replied. “But the photographer said if I wanted to be a success I’d have to learn to flatter people more. He said that he learned that long ago.”

The flash-light picture was certainly far from flattering. The brilliant light had caused every pair of eyes to roll heavenward, till only the whites were visible, so that the group looked not unlike a company of inmates of a blind asylum, posing for a photograph. But the missing eyes were not the only startling features of this remarkable picture. Several mouths were open to their widest extent, and except for the face of Jack Rynson, who was a young man with an unusual capacity for self-control, every countenance was convulsed by an agitation whose exciting cause was left to the imagination of the beholder.

Ruth laughed over the flash-light picture till she cried, and declared that it had almost cured her headache. When Graham helped her up the stairs that night, she startled him by leaning up against him to laugh again. “I was thinking of Claire’s picture in the flash-light,” she explained, as her brother looked down at her anxiously. “Poor Claire! I’m afraid she felt more like crying than laughing.”

“’Tisn’t every girl that’s as plucky as my little sister,” said Graham, tightening his clasp about her. Ruth’s laughter ended abruptly. “Oh, don’t, Graham,” she pleaded, as if distressed by his praise. “If you only knew–” And there she stopped. It was quite enough for Ruth Wylie to know the true inwardness of that day; a day, Ruth was certain, that would never, never be duplicated in her experience.

CHAPTER X
MRS. SNOOKS’ EDUCATION

It was a day or two after her unsuccessful attempt to enact the rôle of heroine that Graham arrived at the cottage at an early hour and in a noticeable state of indignation. In spite of Ruth’s protests that she was quite well enough to assist in the work of the morning, the girls had unanimously scoffed at the suggestion, and had forcibly seated her in one of the porch rockers and thrust a late magazine in her hands. But by the time Graham arrived, the magazine had slipped to the floor and Ruth sitting with folded hands, was able to give her brother her undivided attention.

“It’s the most extraordinary thing,” Graham sat down on the steps at Ruth’s feet, and fanned his flushed face with his hat. “Have you missed anything that belongs to you, lately?”

“Why, no! Have you found anything?”

“That’s what I’m going to tell you. To start at the beginning, the first night Jack and I slept at Mrs. Snooks’, we weren’t warm enough. There weren’t many covers on the bed, and in this hilly country the nights are cool, even when the days are pretty warm. So, in the morning, I spoke to Mrs. Snooks, and said we’d like some extra bedding, and she promised to attend to it.”

Ruth’s face had crinkled suddenly into a smile of comprehension, which Graham was too absorbed to notice.

“Well, that night a steamer rug appeared on the bed. It wasn’t exactly a success. You know a steamer rug’s too narrow to cover two people properly. If it was over Jack, I was left out in the cold, and vice versa. We had to take turns shivering. After one of us got to the point where his teeth chattered, he’d snatch the rug off the other fellow and warm up. But it wasn’t till this morning that I took any particular notice of that rug. And Ruth, it belongs to us!”

Graham looked at his sister with an air of expecting her to be greatly surprised. Translating her smile into an expression of incredulity, he began to prove his assertion.

“Yes, I know it sounds absurd, but I’m not mistaken, Ruth. I suppose two rugs might be of the same pattern, but it’s hardly likely they would have the identical ink-spots. Don’t you remember how I spilled the ink on that rug when I was getting over the measles? And down in the corner is part of a tag Uncle John had sewed on, when he borrowed it for his trip abroad. The ‘Wylie’ is torn off but ‘John G.’ is left. And now the question is–”

Ruth’s laughter could no longer be restrained. “Oh, Graham, she borrowed it.”

“Borrowed it!” repeated the amazed Graham. “Well, I like that.”

“She rushed down here the morning after you came and said she had an extra bed to make, and would we lend her a little bedding. Of course we didn’t have any bedding to spare. We’d only brought enough for ourselves and hardly that, for it’s cooler here than we expected. But the steamer rug was lying around and we thought we could let her take that.”

“But she must have bedding of her own,” insisted Graham. “What does she do in the winter time?”

“That’s the funny thing about Mrs. Snooks. She borrows dust-pans, and flat-irons and all sorts of necessary things and you feel sure that she hasn’t been doing without them all her life. And the queerest part of all is that she acts so aggrieved if we refuse. If we tell her that we’re out of sugar, she seems as indignant as if we kept a store, and it was our business to have sugar for everybody.”

Peggy came out on the porch at that moment, and listened with interest, not unmixed with indignation, to Graham’s account of his discovery. “Sometimes I think the trouble with that woman is that she’s formed an appetite for borrowing, just like an appetite for drugs, you know.” Peggy laughed as she added, “Perhaps I ought not to say a great deal just now, as long as I’m going borrowing myself. I’ve just discovered that we haven’t any ginger in the house, and I’ve set my heart on gingerbread for dinner.”

“Why don’t you borrow it of Mrs. Snooks?” cried Ruth. “It’s time we were getting a little return for what we’ve lent her.”

Peggy hesitated. “I don’t know why I shouldn’t,” she acknowledged frankly. “If it isn’t very convenient for her to lend it, perhaps she’ll realize that her borrowing may inconvenience other people sometimes.”

It was while Peggy was absent on this errand that the plot was formed. Gradually the group on the piazza had increased till only Peggy and Dorothy were missing. Not unnaturally the conversation concerned itself with Mrs. Snooks’ peculiarities, and the undeniable disadvantages of having her for a neighbor. Graham’s story of the steamer rug was matched by equally harrowing tales of useful articles borrowed with the promise of an immediate return, and missed when wanted most.

“Peggy imagines that she’s going to teach Mrs. Snooks a lesson by borrowing a little ginger of her,” Ruth said with a shake of her head. “It’s my opinion it’ll take a good deal more than that to teach Mrs. Snooks anything.”

A sudden mischievous light illumined Amy’s eyes. “Let’s give her a real lesson,” she cried. “Let’s show her how it seems to have your neighbors always borrowing things. Peggy’s gone after a little ginger, you say?”

“Yes,” nodded Ruth fascinated by the possibilities she saw unfolding in Amy’s plan.

“Well, when Peggy gets home, I’ll go down and do some borrowing. And it won’t be anything like ginger, you understand. I’ll pick out some real useful article, that she’ll miss every minute. That’s the way she does. And when I get back, Priscilla will take her turn.”

Had Peggy been present it is doubtful whether the project would have been received with such unanimous enthusiasm. Peggy’s softness of heart interfered sadly, at times, with her theories of discipline. But in her absence the conspiracy against Mrs. Snooks’ peace of mind was discussed and elaborated without a dissenting voice. Even Aunt Abigail tacitly approved, and Jack Rynson, who, it appeared, had been solicited to lend a handkerchief and a black necktie, that Mr. Snooks might be properly attired for attending a funeral in the village, gave the schemers the benefit of several valuable suggestions.

Peggy made her appearance dimpling with amusement, and was greeted with a shout of interrogation. “Did you get it?” cried half a dozen voices in chorus.

“Yes, I got it, but you never saw anybody so surprised and unwilling. She hinted and fussed, and dropped hints that she’d been thinking of making gingerbread for supper herself. It really made me uncomfortable to take it, but I felt it was time that she had a lesson.”

“High time!” agreed Amy with a droll glance at her fellow-conspirators. The unsuspecting Peggy looked about with mild surprise on the laughing group. “Well, we’re sure of our gingerbread, anyway,” she said and passed into the house. Amy was instantly on her feet.

“Oh, Amy,” exclaimed Ruth, half admiringly, and half in remonstrance, “do you really dare?”

“Dare? Why, I don’t need any great amount of courage. I’m only Number Two. It’s Number Five or Number Six who’ll have to be brave.” Amy went gaily down the path, and Peggy as she stirred the soda into the molasses, wondered at the laughter on the front porch and reflected that the crowd was in unusually jolly spirits.

About the time that the gingerbread was beginning to diffuse its savory odors through the house, Amy returned. A glance at her triumphant face furnished sufficient proof that her undertaking had been successful, even without the silent testimony of a large object concealed by a napkin, and carried with ostentatious care. “Oh, Amy, what have you there?” cried Priscilla, finding some difficulty in making her voice heard above the chorus of exclamations and laughter.

“An apple-pie.” Amy’s tone indicated immense satisfaction with herself.

“Amy, not really? You couldn’t!” Ruth protested, choking with laughter.

“Seeing’s believing, isn’t it?” Amy whisked off the napkin, and revealed the pie still steaming. When order was sufficiently restored, she told her story.

“I hadn’t exactly made up my mind what I’d ask for, but the minute I was inside the kitchen, I saw the pie set in the window to cool and I decided on that. Poor Mrs. Snooks couldn’t believe her ears. She asked me over twice, and then she said she’d never heard of anybody’s borrowing a pie. And I said that we happened to be out of pies, and were going to have company to dinner. You and Jack will have to stay,” she added to Graham, who accepted with as profound a bow as if he had not been counting confidently on the invitation.

“Did she act very cross?” questioned Priscilla, who was beginning to wonder if Mrs. Snooks’ education had not progressed sufficiently for that day, without any further assistance.

“Oh, not particularly. She looked rather sad, and you couldn’t call her manner obliging, but it isn’t likely that she’d say very much, considering that she’s borrowed something from us once a day on an average, ever since we came.”

“I wish you’d let me take my turn next,” said Claire a little nervously. “I don’t want to wait till she gets to the exploding point, and then be the one to be blown up.”

“Oh, go ahead, I don’t mind.” As a matter of fact, Priscilla shared Claire’s qualms, but would not for the world have admitted as much. Ruth watched Claire moving down the path, reluctance apparent in every step, and declared that it didn’t seem fair. “You girls are bearding the lioness in her den and I’m having all the fun without doing a thing. Aunt Abigail and I are the lucky ones.”

“Bless you, child, I’m going to take my turn,” said the old lady, with a twinkle in her eye which indicated that her requisition on the generosity of Mrs. Snooks would mark a distinct advance in the education of that lady. “I’m going when Priscilla gets back.”

But, as it happened, Aunt Abigail was not called on to redeem her boast. Claire returned with a small package of salt, folded up in brown paper, her courage having failed her when it came to the point of requesting the loan of a more useful article. Priscilla, having joined in the scoffing called out by this evidence of faint-heartedness, was on her guard against a similar display of timidity.

Mrs. Snooks was ironing as Priscilla appeared in the doorway, and the flush that stained her sallow cheeks was not altogether due to the proximity of a glowing stove.

“Mrs. Snooks,” Priscilla began, finding the ordeal rather more trying than she had expected, “I’ve come to see if you’ll lend us your coffee-pot till to-morrow.”

Mrs. Snooks tested her flat-iron with a damp forefinger, and then resumed her work. Her answer was so long coming that Priscilla began to wonder if she were not intending to reply.

“There’s been a good deal of borrowing ’round in this neighborhood first and last,” Mrs. Snooks remarked at length, with impressive dignity. “And lately I’ve been laying in a considerable stock of new things, including a coffee-pot. I’ve made up my mind that I’ll neither borrow nor lend. While I don’t like to seem unneighborly,” concluded Mrs. Snooks, setting down her flat-iron with a startling thud, “it’s a matter of principle. I’ve done the last lending or borrowing that I’m a-going to.”

It was apparent that Amy’s ruse had worked, and that Mrs. Snooks had learned her lesson, but it needed the girls’ united efforts to dissuade Aunt Abigail from following up Priscilla’s visit, by a call of her own. Aunt Abigail argued that in order to make the effects of the lesson permanent, it was necessary to “rub it in.” From a hint she finally let fall, the girls gathered that she was disappointed in not being able to carry out a brilliant idea that had flashed into her mind while the plot was developing.

“What was it you were going to borrow, Aunt Abigail?” Ruth asked, but Aunt Abigail shook her head. “If I had succeeded in getting it from Mrs. Snooks,” she replied, “you should have known. Not otherwise.” And as Peggy who happened out on the porch at that moment, threw the weight of her influence on the side of those who were protesting against any further visits to Mrs. Snooks, it seemed probable that the curiosity of the company would remain ungratified. Aunt Abigail was an old lady abundantly able to keep her own counsel.

Peggy viewed the apple-pie with an air of disquiet. “Now, we’ll have to buy some apples, right away. We’re out.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Why, we must make a pie in the morning to return to Mrs. Snooks.”

“Return!” cried Amy. “Why, Peggy, you’re going to ruin everything. This is ‘spoiling the Egyptians.’ What did Mrs. Snooks ever return that we didn’t send for?” As Peggy refused to alter her determination, a little murmur of dissatisfaction arose.

“I think we’re getting the worst of that bargain,” Jack Rynson said with feeling. “Swapping one of Miss Peggy’s pies, for one of Mrs. Snooks’. I’ve tried both, and I ought to know.”

“Then we’ll send it back just as it is,” declared Amy with another happy inspiration. “We’ll change it to another plate, and she won’t know whether it is her pie or not. And, even if she suspects the truth, what difference does it make?”

This brilliant idea was actually carried out, after some demurring on the part of Peggy, who was afraid that Mrs. Snooks’ feelings might be hurt. Graham was delegated to return the pie and did so that evening, with a suitable expression of thanks which Mrs. Snooks received without returning the usual assurance that every one concerned was perfectly welcome.

Graham turning to go up-stairs, halted by the door. “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Snooks, if you could let me have–”

“I’m entirely out,” replied Mrs. Snooks, without waiting for him to finish.

Graham stared. Then he understood that Mrs. Snooks was suspecting him of complicity in the plot, and his amusement came very near getting the better of his politeness. In his effort not to laugh, his handsome young face flushed a not unbecoming scarlet.

“It was only that I lost a button on the way home, Mrs. Snooks, and I thought if you would–”

“I’ve lent my last spool of thread,” said Mrs. Snooks, “and I haven’t a needle to my name. Henney dropped my thimble down the well last week, and as for buttons, the only ones I own are on the children’s clothes. But if you want any of them things, Mr. Wylie, you’ll find a right good assortment at Dowd’s. He keeps a good stock, if ’tis nothing but a country store.”

Graham thanked her and went to his room. He reflected that Mrs. Snooks had not only learned her lesson, but had applied it, which is not always the case with promising pupils.

CHAPTER XI
DOROTHY GETS INTO MISCHIEF

The final obstacle in the way of the boys’ long deferred tramp was now removed. Still another last day was celebrated with fitting ceremonies, and the Snooks’ roof sheltered the wanderers for positively the last time. Graham and Jack had made their farewells the previous evening, as they were to start early, and Ruth’s suggestion of rising to see them off was immediately vetoed by her brother.

“You won’t do any such thing. Why should you miss two or three hours of sleep for the sake of saying good-by to-morrow morning, when you can just as well say it to-night?” Yet for all his masculine assumption of superiority to sentiment Graham was conscious of a little pang of disappointment as he and Jack passed Dolittle Cottage, in the dewy freshness of the summer morning. He had more than half expected to see a hand or two flutter at a window, in token that their departure was not unnoticed.

“‘How can I bear to leave thee,’” hummed Jack under his breath, and his smile was a little mischievous. Graham regarded him disdainfully, and Jack, breaking off his song, hastened to say: “Well, they’re as nice a crowd of girls as we’d find anywhere, if we tramped from here to the Pacific coast.”

“You’re right about that,” Graham returned, mollified, and then the boys, turning the bend of the road, halted as abruptly as if a highwayman had checked their advance. For hidden from sight by a tangled thicket of underbrush and vines, five girls in white shirt-waists and short skirts were waiting their arrival. The girls shrieked delightedly at the amazement depicted on the countenances of the two knights of the road.

“Now, don’t try to pretend that you were expecting this all the time. You know you never thought of it,” Ruth cried, slipping her hand through her brother’s arm, and giving it a fond squeeze.

“Of course I never thought of it. Only a girl could originate such a brilliant idea.” The assumed sarcasm of Graham’s rejoinder could not conceal his pleasure, and Ruth flashed a satisfied glance at Peggy, who met it with a twinkle of understanding.

“We’re only going to walk about a mile,” explained Peggy, as the procession moved forward. “We know you want to make a record, your first day out. And, besides, we haven’t had a real breakfast yet, only crackers and milk.”

It was a long mile that they traversed before parting company, as the girls found when they came to retrace their steps. Familiar as they thought themselves with the vicinity, the sunrise world was full of delightful surprises. There was magic in the air, and the winding road lured them ahead, as if it had been an enchanted path leading to fairyland.

“I wish somebody’d go away early every morning,” Amy sighed from a full heart, “and give us an excuse for getting up early. To think of sleeping away hours like this.”

“It’s a pity we didn’t leave long ago,” suggested Jack Rynson, between whom and Amy there existed a sort of armed truce, “so that you could discover what a country morning was like.” But before Amy could form a sufficiently withering reply, a tiny bird, perched on the topmost bough of a neighboring tree, had burst into such music that the little party stood silenced, and even playful bickering was forgotten.

Something of the magic of the morning vanished, it must be confessed, when the farewells could no longer be postponed, and the girls turned their faces toward Dolittle Cottage. “The worst of nice things,” said Ruth crossly, “is that you miss them so when they stop.”

“It’s only half-past six now,” announced Priscilla, consulting her watch. “Goodness! What are we going to do with a day as long as this?”

“I know what I’m going to do with part of it,” said Peggy. “I’m going to give Lucy Haines a good boost on her algebra. There’s been so much going on since the boys came, that she’s felt shy about dropping in. Afraid of interfering, you know. But I sent word to her by Jerry, yesterday, that I should expect her this afternoon.”

As it proved, it was not a difficult matter to occupy the long day, since each hour brought its own occupation and a little to spare. At the threshold of the cottage they were met by startling news, Dorothy hurrying out importantly to make the announcement.

“One of your little chickens has goned to Heaven, Aunt Peggy. A big bird angel took it.”

“What on earth does she mean?” Peggy demanded in a perplexity not unnatural, considering the highly idealized character of Dorothy’s report. It was left to Aunt Abigail to translate the catastrophe into prose. The Dolittle Cottagers were not the only early risers that fine morning. A big hawk, up betimes, and looking for his breakfast, had selected as a choice tit-bit, one of the yellow hen’s fast diminishing brood. Peggy felt that she could have borne it better had it not been for the unimpaired cheerfulness of the yellow hen’s demeanor.

The discussion of the tragedy delayed breakfast, and when the household finally gathered about the round table, it was a little after the regular breakfast hour rather than earlier. And, as sometimes happens, dinner seemed to follow close on the heels of breakfast, and directly after dinner, came Lucy Haines. Lucy’s manner of accepting a kindness always betrayed a little hesitancy, as if her independent spirit dreaded the possibility of incurring too heavy a weight of obligation. But usually after a little time in Peggy’s society, that air of constraint disappeared, greatly to Peggy’s satisfaction.

That afternoon session was a protracted one. Lucy’s attempt to master algebra without a teacher, had been not unlike the efforts of a mariner to navigate without a chart. Lucy’s little craft had struck many a reef, and was aground hard and fast, when the tug “Peggy” steamed up alongside. The fascination of discovering a key to mysteries seemingly impenetrable rendered Lucy as oblivious to the flight of time as Peggy herself. When the girls on the porch called in to ask the time, and Peggy glancing at the clock in the corner, replied that it was half-past four, Lucy let her book drop in her consternation. Instantly her face was aflame.

“Oh, it can’t be,” she said in dismay. “I can’t have been here three hours. What must you think of me?”

Peggy looked at her in a surprise more soothing to the girl’s sensitive pride than any amount of polite protest.

“Why, I’ve enjoyed every minute,” she said simply. “And I think we’re beginning to see daylight, don’t you?”

“Indeed I do. I didn’t believe that such puzzling things could get so clear in one afternoon. And I can’t begin to thank you.” Lucy gathered up her belongings and made a hasty exit, while Peggy followed her out upon the porch.

“Hasn’t Dorothy come yet, girls? Then wait a minute.” This last to Lucy. “I’ll get my hat and walk part way with you. I told Dorothy she might play with little Annie Cole this afternoon but it’s time she was home.”

The two girls had covered about half the distance to the farmhouse, when they were met by Rosetta Muriel who nodded, cordially to Peggy, and stiffly to her companion. “We thought it was time Annie was coming home,” she explained. “Ma said you folks would get tired having her ’round. So I was just going for her.”

The color had receded from Peggy’s face in the course of this explanation. “Annie! Why, I thought–”

“Ma told her she could go over to play with Dorothy. Didn’t she come?”

“Why, I haven’t seen her. I told Dorothy she might go to play with Annie.”

There was a frightened catch in Peggy’s voice. Rosetta Muriel hastened to reassure her, though with a distinct touch of patronage.

“It’s nothing to get fidgety about. Those young ones are up to some mischief, that’s all. Our Annie’s a whole team all by herself as far as cutting up goes, and I guess your Dorothy is another of the same kind.”

“But where can they be?” faltered poor Peggy, too engrossed with that all-important question to be concerned as to the implied criticism of her small kinswoman.

“Oh, they’re about the farm somewhere, I s’pose. You needn’t worry. That Annie of ours is always getting into the awfulest scrapes, but, you see, she hasn’t been killed yet.”

With this modified comfort, Rosetta Muriel led the searching party. Peggy followed, looking rather white in spite of repeatedly assuring herself that the children were sure to be safe. Lucy Haines brought up the rear, because she could not bear to go her way till Peggy’s anxiety was relieved.

The investigation of several of Annie’s favorite haunts proved fruitless, and Rosetta Muriel began to show signs of temper. “Looks like they’ve gone down to the pond. That’s a good quarter of a mile, and I’ve got on satin slippers.” She held out an unsuitably clad foot for Peggy to admire, but Peggy was thinking of other matters than French heeled slippers. “The pond! Is it very deep?”

“No, indeed. But ma don’t like–”

Lucy Haines interrupted the explanation by a stifled cry, which from a girl so self-controlled meant more than a fit of hysterical screaming on the part of one differently constituted. Peggy whirled about.

In the adjoining pasture separated from them by a low stone wall, was a fantastic spectacle, worthy a midsummer night’s dream. Down the slope, snorting as he ran, galloped a full sized boar, his formidable tusks grotesquely emphasizing his terrified demeanor. The fairy-like figure perched on his back and holding fast by his ears, was Dorothy. And behind ran Annie, plying a switch and shouting commands intended to hasten the speed of the frightened charger.

As if she were in a dream, Peggy heard behind her the horrified whisper of Rosetta Muriel. “They’ll be killed!” gasped the girl. “Why, that boar’s dangerous!” Then her fear found voice and she screamed. At the sound Annie looked up, and halted in her tracks. Dorothy, too, lifted her eyes and straightway fell off her flying steed. And the boar, apparently uncertain as to what might happen next, lost no time in putting space between himself and his late tormentors. He turned and galloped up the slope in a frenzy of fear highly ludicrous under the circumstances. Unluckily none of the lookers-on were in a mood to appreciate the humor of the situation.

Peggy reached Dorothy about the time that the fallen equestrienne was picking herself up, her face rueful, for she realized that the hour of reckoning had come. A moment later Rosetta Muriel had pounced on Annie, and, as an indication of sisterly authority, was boxing both ears impartially.

“You little piece! You might have been killed, and it would have served you right. I don’t believe you’ll ever be anything better than a tomboy as long as you live. If I was ma, I’d lick these tricks out of you, you bet.”

The frantic child, between her sister’s blows and angry words, was more like a furious little animal than a human being. Struggling in Rosetta Muriel’s grip, her face crimson with passion, she showed herself ready to use tooth and nail indiscriminately in order to free herself. For all her advantage in size and strength, Rosetta Muriel was unable to cope with so ferocious an antagonist. She solved the problem by giving Annie a violent push, as she released her hold. The child struck the ground at some distance and with a force which brought Peggy’s heart into her mouth. But immediately Annie scrambled to her feet, her face scratched and bleeding, and started toward home, screaming as she went, though less from pain than from anger.

“That brat!” cried Rosetta Muriel breathing fast. Then her eyes fell on Peggy, standing in disdainful quiet, and her expression showed uncertainty. Rosetta Muriel was hardly capable of appreciating that for one in a fit of passion to attempt to correct a child is the height of absurdity, but she recognized the indignation Peggy took no pains to hide.

“Does seem sometimes,” observed Rosetta Muriel with an unsuccessful effort to regain the air of languor which she imagined the badge of good breeding, “as if nothing I could do would make a lady out of that young one.”

“I should think not,” replied Peggy, and it was not her fault if Rosetta Muriel thought the remark ambiguous. “Good night,” she added hastily and turned away, fearful that a longer interview would bring her to the point of speaking her mind with a plainness hardly allowable on slight acquaintance. Like many people noted for tact and consideration, Peggy, when driven to frankness, left nothing unsaid that would throw light on the situation.

Dorothy walked at her aunt’s side with chastened step. In the chaos of feeling into which Rosetta Muriel’s unwise discipline had plunged her small sister, there was little chance for the voice of Annie’s conscience to make itself heard. But Dorothy, on the other hand, was the prey of conscientious qualms. She had been naughty. Annie’s angry big sister had said they might have been killed, which, from Dorothy’s standpoint, was censurable in the extreme.

“Aunt Peggy,” she began at last, in such a forlorn little pipe that Peggy was forced to steel herself against an immediate softening of heart. “Aunt Peggy, I guess you’d better whip me. If you send me to bed ’thout any supper it wouldn’t make me a good girl a bit, ’cause me and Annie ate lots of cookies and I don’t want any supper, anyway.”

Peggy studied the sunset earnestly before she could trust herself to reply.

“Dorothy, how often have you and Annie done what you did to-day?”

Dorothy was not certain, but it was evident that the diversion had been tried on several occasions and Peggy’s heart almost stood still, realizing the peril to which the children had exposed themselves. Without doubt their immunity was due to their very audacity. Apparently the boar had not connected these fearless mites with human beings whom he knew to be vulnerable, but had fancied them sportive elves, against whom his tusks would be powerless. Peggy registered a vow not to let Dorothy out of her sight again while the summer lasted.

“Why didn’t you tell Aunt Peggy what you and Annie were playing?”

The candid Dorothy had an instant reply. “’Cause I didn’t want you to make me stop.” It was clear that the sin had not been one of ignorance. Peggy resolved to act upon Dorothy’s counsel.

After the two reached home, the story had so many tellings that there seemed a little danger of Dorothy’s penitence evaporating in self-importance. “I had the last turn, anyway,” she boasted; “and he runned faster with me on his back, too.”

“Oh, if I’d only been there with my camera,” lamented Amy. “Think what a snap-shot it would have made.” Then as Peggy frowned at her behind Dorothy’s shoulder, she subsided with a grimace of comprehension.

As Dorothy climbed the stairs to bed, it was understood that the hour of retribution had arrived. Dorothy wept softly while undressing, and uttered agonizing shrieks as she underwent her chastisement. Down-stairs the girls looked at one another aghast, and Hobo whined uneasily, as if asking permission to interfere. Then the uproar ended abruptly, and Dorothy climbing upon Peggy’s knee, pledged herself solemnly never again to ride boar-back, a promise which stands more than an even chance of being religiously kept.

Altogether Peggy was inclined to regard her methods of discipline as highly successful. It was not till a penitent and altogether adorable Dorothy had been tucked into bed, and kissed uncounted times, that doubt assailed her. She was moving toward the stairs, when a small voice arrested her steps.

“Aunt Peggy,” Dorothy said dreamily, “you don’t spank as hard as my mamma does. You whipped me just the way Hobo whips himself with his tail.”

CHAPTER XII
THE NEW LUCY

“She doesn’t seem like that sort of a girl,” declared Amy, who was developing a tendency to disagree with Claire on every possible pretext. “She’s one of the stickers, or I don’t know one when I see it.”

A little assenting murmur went the rounds, and Claire glanced reproachfully at Priscilla, who had sided against her. “Two souls with but a single thought,” represented Claire’s ideal of friendship. That two people could love each other devotedly, and yet disagree on a variety of subjects, was beyond her comprehension. She was ready at a moment’s notice to cast aside her personal convictions, and agree with Priscilla, whatever stand the latter cared to take, and it seemed hard, in view of such unquestioning loyalty, that Priscilla should persist in having opinions of her own.

But Claire’s hour of triumph was on its way. When Jerry Morton came in the morning with a string of freshly caught fish, he produced from the depths of an over-worked pocket a folded paper, which, to judge from its worn and soiled appearance, had served as a hair-curler or in some equally trying capacity. This he handed to Peggy, who regarded it with natural misgiving.

“That Haines girl sent it,” Jerry explained. “I put it in the pocket where I carry the bait, but I guess the inside is all right.”

Thus encouraged, Peggy unfolded the dingy scrap, but the changes of her expressive face did not bear out Jerry’s optimistic conjecture that the “inside” was all right. Judging from Peggy’s crestfallen air, it was all wrong. The note was not written in Lucy’s usual regular hand. The letters straggled, the lines zig-zagged across the page, and the name signed was almost an unintelligible scrawl. But Peggy thought less of these superficial matters than of the unwelcome news communicated.