Until the coming of Bethany and Dallas the Judge had never seen Titus in contact with other boys and girls.

The boy had been brought up alone; when he wanted playmates he went abroad to seek them. He very seldom brought a boy home to play with him. The Judge had often remarked this, and had attributed the absence of children from his own house as an outward sign of Mrs. Blodgett’s inward dislike of “clutter.” However, since his adoption of Bethany and Dallas he had noticed that boys and girls came about the house quite freely.

There was therefore some other reason for their previous absence; and in his new interest in boy and girl study he decided that one child alone in a home is not a sufficient nucleus for a play place. He cannot gather round himself as great a variety of interests as several children can.

Another thing the Judge marveled at was the amazing strength of youthful character. Titus when alone had been submissive, patient, self-effacing. As soon as these other children had been introduced into the house he became self-assertive, particular as to his rights, and yet not disagreeable.

Even little Bethany had a strong character. Little men and women—grown people in miniature, the Judge often thought to himself as he gazed at the three young heads about his table.

Dallas’ success as a member of his family had so far exceeded his most sanguine expectations. The Judge had written a rather amusing letter to Mr. Folsom on the subject of his adoption of the boy, and had told him firmly that although he was keeping Dallas he was to be the last child of adoption. He wished no others. Alas! the Judge was no prophet.

Mr. Folsom, in his delight, had come to Riverport, and had had a three-days’ visit at the Judge’s and many long conversations with Dallas. The Judge could not but acknowledge that Dallas was in part a changed boy. He could not expect him to make himself over all at once, but the lad was certainly more sincere. He was still polite, exceedingly polite, but he did not bore himself and other people by doing things that were against his nature.

For instance, he had given up his ceaseless companionship of Titus. The two went their respective ways. They did not quarrel, neither did they harmonize and to the Judge’s amusement they even went to school at separate times.

If there was a question of championship Titus was at Dallas’ side, and one day the Judge did hear a species of altercation between the two boys—an altercation that had ended in a reconciliation. Titus had Dallas penned in a corner out in the garden under the Judge’s study balcony.

“Look here, if you don’t try to drop your blamed old English accent I’ll stop fighting for you,” he said. “I ’most got my nose broken to-day. Can’t you say ‘fast’? It isn’t ‘fost.’”

“Fast, fast,” said Dallas, submissively.

“Now say ‘last.’”

Dallas said “last” and “mast” and many other words, until at last he got out of patience and rebelled. “I don’t want to lose my English accent. I am proud of being English.”

“Then you do your own fighting,” said Titus, furiously.

“What makes you think I can’t fight,” said Dallas, and his pale cheeks grew pink. “I’m taller than you.”

“Taller,” sneered Titus; “you’re soft like a stick of candy.”

He began his sentence on his feet, but finished it on his back in a bank of snow.

He was up like a flash and standing before Dallas, who was ejaculating, “You little black lead pencil.”

Titus’s wrath was all gone, to the Judge’s amazement, and he was gurgling in his throat: “How did you do it? Teach me that trick—come on, Dallas, teach me.”

The English boy’s contempt faded, and he smiled complacently at the changed face before him.

“I will tell you something,” he said, grandly. “Once my father was to figure in a wrestling match on the stage. Now, he was a good all-round athlete, but he was not satisfied with himself. We were in New York at the time. You have heard of Billy McGee, the trainer?”

Titus caught his breath. “O, yes—yes.”

“Well, he got Billy McGee to come and train him. It cost a fearful sum, but father gave it. Billy taught my father, and my father taught me. So you needn’t fight my battles any more.”

Titus’s face was glowing. “I say,” and he linked his arm in Dallas’s, “tell me some of those tricks of throwing. I don’t know a thing.”

The Judge groaned. The boys were walking away together arm in arm. “O, this glorification of brute strength,” he muttered, “the bane of the rising generation,” and holding out a finger to the pigeon, who was bowing and cooing to him, he stepped into the house. He must talk to these boys on the subject of fighting, and seating himself in his favorite chair he began to prepare a fatherly or grandfatherly speech.

Bethany came in and, seeing that he did not wish to be disturbed, sat down on the rug with Sukey.

Higby brought in the afternoon mail, and with a stifled yawn laid it on the table and departed.

Poor old Higby! He was a very early riser, and at the close of every day he began to get sleepy, and immediately after the seven o’clock dinner of the household he retired to his room. Jennie, the parlor maid, took upon herself his duty of going to the hall door when there was a ring.

On this particular day the Judge composed his speech, then went down to dinner with Bethany. Somewhat to his dismay, somewhat to his relief, and just a little to his amusement, Titus and Dallas came to the table like two brothers. Their eyes were on each other, their attentions were for each other; they scarcely saw the Judge and Bethany.

Ah! the enthusiasm of youth, and shaking his head the Judge requested them both to accompany him to his study after dinner. Upon arriving there he talked to them very seriously on the evil of picking quarrels with other boys and the demoralizing effects of an appeal to brute force.

The boys were listening attentively and respectfully, when their minds were most forcibly withdrawn by a succession of blood-curdling shrieks from the floor above.

With one accord they all sprang to their feet and ran out to the hall.

“B-b-burglars! Th-th-thieves! F-f-fire! M-m-murderers!” rang out in stammering tones.

Poor old Higby, in the fine dressing-gown that the Judge had given him at Christmas, and in a pair of bedroom slippers to match that Mrs. Blodgett had made for him, was running downstairs, screaming at the top of his voice, and with eyes starting from his head.

“R-r-ring up the police,” he went on, “c-c-catch them alive!”

“Higby,” commanded the Judge, firmly, “calm yourself and tell us what is the matter.”

The old man gained some degree of composure upon arriving in the hall and seeing himself surrounded by friends.

“They ’m-m-most killed me,” he said, wildly, stepping up and down and clasping his head with his hands. “They t-t-tried to dig their knives in me, but I r-r-ran like a fox.”

Though considerably older than the Judge, his head was not white, but was covered with a thin crop of grizzled hair.

“O, blood!” he moaned, miserably, bringing down one hand and extending it toward the Judge, “blood! blood!”

There were red streaks on his hands, and the Judge looked at them seriously.

“Higby, begin from the first. What has happened to you?”

The man began to step backward and to stammer violently.

“S-s-sir, I was in m-m-my room, b-b-back through the upper hall in the L.”

“Turn him round, some one,” called Mrs. Blodgett, who was hurrying up from below. “He’s backing downstairs.”

Titus sprang forward, took him by the sleeve, and led him past the group of frightened maids to a safe corner by the hall window.

From there he went on with his story.

“W-w-was in m-m-my room in my bed, s-s-sound asleep, d-dreaming of home and m-m-mother. S-s-sir,” and he turned to the Judge, “w-w-we lived in a little house b-b-by a running brook, n-n-near a w-w-wood. I woke up, s-s-sir, c-c-crying. Then I heard a s-s-sound, sir, l-l-like the sounds of o-o-old times.”

“Well?” said the Judge, encouragingly.

“I-I-I got up, sir; I put on m-m-my gown a-a-and s-s-slippers; I-I-I went out in the h-h-hall, sir.”

“And what happened?”

“Th-th-the burglars must h-h-have been waiting, s-s-sir. They j-j-jumped on me from behind. Th-th-they struck me on the h-h-head with their sharp knives, s-s-sir.”

“Did you see them?” asked the Judge, sharply.

“I-I-I thought I saw one, sir. He was all in b-b-black, sir, and he d-d-dug his knife in me.”

The Judge looked mystified. If it had been the middle of the night he would have believed Higby’s story, but early in the evening he could not for a moment suppose that any thieves would rush out and attack a person who was simply walking along a hall. However, he turned to the boys.

“Come upstairs with me and we will make a thorough search.”

“Wait a minute, please, sir,” said Dallas. “May I ask Higby what the sound was that drew him from his bed?”

“T-t-the sound of owls, sir,” stammered Higby, “of little ow-ow-owls sittin’ on the trees an’ hootin.’”

Dallas gave Titus a queer look, and the latter immediately burst out laughing.

“’Pon my word; poor old Higby,” gasped Titus. “You’ve been fooled.”

The manservant looked at him indignantly, while Dallas turned to the Judge, who was waiting for an explanation.

“You told me not to keep my birds so closely, sir, so I let them do pretty much as they please. I open my window every night at dusk. They must have got in through some other window into the hall. It is a habit of owls to pounce on anything furry or hairy.”

“I know that,” said the Judge, with a hearty laugh. “I’ve heard of their descending on the fur caps of hunters. Well! well! poor old Higby,” and he turned to him. “Come, now, get over your fright. Those were only little birds that attacked you—Master Dallas’s little owls.”

Higby was in a speechless rage. He did not dare to get angry with the Judge, but he did not for a moment believe that his assailant had been a bird.

“Come, come,” said the Judge, humoring him; “to satisfy you we will make a search.”

Quite a procession moved up the stairway—the Judge, holding Bethany’s hand, in advance, the two boys and the servants following.

Upon arriving in the upper hall and traversing it to the L beyond, where the servants’ bedrooms were over the kitchen and pantries, Dallas kept looking sharply about.

One peculiarity of the Judge was that he liked plenty of light. At night the electric lights were turned on in every hall and every room, whether occupied or not.

“I do not see the culprits,” said Dallas, “but I will call,” and he gave a tentative “Too whoo, whoo, whoo whoo!”

“Too whoo, whoo, whoo whoo,” said two little soft voices near them.

Dallas stuck his head out a window. “Ah, there are the miscreants, sitting on the limb of that tree.”

The branches of the big, leafless old elm brushed the hall window, and the little owls sitting there were calmly contemplating a rising moon.

The Judge let Bethany look at them, then he said: “See, Higby, there are your burglars. There are no traces of any others here. No man would be bold enough to pass through this lighted house, and if he did why should he attack you?”

“I-I-I saw him,” burst from Higby, “a b-b-big black man.”

The Judge looked down at Bethany. She was tightly clasping his hand, and the expression of her face was doubtful.

“They were owls that attacked you, Higby,” he said, decidedly; “don’t let me hear any more nonsense about a burglar. Come downstairs, children,” and he turned about.

Bethany would not let go his hand, even when they entered the study.

“I will read aloud a little to compose her thoughts before she goes to bed,” the Judge reflected. “No fairy tales to stimulate her imagination, but something that she will not understand,” and he took from his bookshelves a volume of Milton’s works.

He seated himself by the table, drew his reading light toward him, and began. After a time he looked down at the little figure sitting on the stool at his feet.

“I suppose you don’t understand this, Bethany,” he said, patronizingly.

“O, don’t speak, don’t speak, Daddy Grandpa,” she said, impatiently; “please go on.”

She had lifted her head. Her face had lost its dreamy expression. It was glowing, radiant, and intensely interested. The Judge went on mechanically:

Why, the child was understanding what he read, he reflected with surprise, or, rather, she was putting her own interpretation upon it.

“Bethany,” he asked after a time and slowly closing the book, “what do you make of all this?”

“O, I think,” she said, eloquently, “that Satan must be the father of that bad black man that struck Higby, and his home must be in the fiery gulf.”

The Judge smiled. “Bethany, those were Dallas’s owls that attacked Higby. There was no black man there.”

“But, Daddy Grandpa,” she said, incredulously, “little birds could not be so bad.”

“I fear they were bad, Bethany. Birds are not all good. They are like children. Some are good, some bad; but come, it is your bedtime.”

“It doesn’t feel my bedtime,” she said, quickly.

“But it is. Little girls ought to get to bed early.”

“Sometimes I sat up late when my mamma was alive,” she said, coaxingly.

“I think you would better go,” said the Judge.

“There is no one up there that I know,” she replied, drearily.

“How about Ellen and Susie; you tell me they live in the wall beside your bed.”

“They have gone to the country to see the place where they are buried,” she said, quickly.

The Judge was silent. Sometimes his studies of childhood mystified him. Just now he was afraid that Higby’s foolish story had caused this heretofore fearless child suddenly to become afraid to go upstairs to bed.

While he was thinking she silently caressed the pigeon, which had hopped up into her lap, but after a time she put up one of her tiny hands and convulsively seized his large one. “Daddy Grandpa, read some more. You have a honey voice.”

The Judge smiled broadly, then he took up a magazine from the table. What would best put a little girl to sleep? Ah! the political situation in the far East, and this time Bethany did go to sleep. Her head was against his knee so he could not move, but through the doorway he hailed Dallas, who was coming out of the sitting room opposite, where he and Titus prepared their lessons.

“Dallas, send Mrs. Blodgett here.”

“Mrs. Blodgett,” he said, when she came puffing up the stairway and stood before him, “have a bed moved in this little girl’s room and let one of the maids sleep there in future. I don’t think that it is good for her to be alone so much.”

Mrs. Blodgett nodded her head. “Just what I’ve been a-thinkin’, sir. I’m willin’, I’m sure, to take her in my own room next door.”

“No, no; you need your sleep,” said the Judge. “You are getting older, and you have brought up one family. Let one of the girls attend to this child.”

“She do talk a lot to herself in her room, sir. I hears her laughin’ and chattin’ with them two blessed little girls of yours.”

“Doesn’t she talk of other children?” asked the Judge.

“O, bless you, yes, sir, an’ she also talks to tables, an’ chairs, an’ carpets, an’ that ghost mouse. She do have a name for everything in her room, an’ you’d think she had a whole menagerie to hear her growl an’ bark.”

“Must be the spotted dog,” said the Judge to himself with a smile, and he again took up his magazine.

Mrs. Blodgett waddled away. “Sure an’ it’s a wonderful thing how at his age he do take on the ways of a family man. He ought to ’a’ had a dozen children.”

The Judge was instinctively a model person at managing children. To begin with, he loved them; and to end with, he did not fuss over them. Just now he was becoming intensely uncomfortable on account of this solid little lump against his slightly rheumatic knee. If he took her up and laid her on the sofa he might wake her, so he gave her a cautious little push. She gently rolled over. He guided her head and assisted the indignant pigeon to fly away. Now Bethany was comfortably stretched on the floor sleeping soundly, her pretty mouth wide open, after the fashion of civilized children.

The Judge had heard of Indian mothers closing the mouths of their babes, so he bent over and gently brought the child’s lips together. To his delight they stayed closed, and with a sigh of relief he stretched out his long legs, took up his magazine, and looked enjoyably about him before he went on with his reading.

He was intensely fond of his books; indeed, reading was almost a passion with him, and the evening hours were the pleasantest part of the day.

Work was over, the children were safely in the house—for since Titus’s accident he always had a little anxiety about boys and girls absent from their own rooftrees—and he was free to amuse himself in this most delightful of ways.

Alas for the Judge! He had not read five sentences when he heard a shrill, insistent voice, not in this upper hall, but in the one below, away down by the front door.

“I tell you I must see the Jedge. I hevn’t got no message.”

Strange to say, the voice, which was shrill and uncultured rather than noisy, woke Bethany like the sound of a trumpet.

Instantly rousing herself she sat up and looked composedly at the Judge. There was not the slightest sign of confusion about her, or any bewildered look as of a child hastily aroused from sleep.

“Daddy Grandpa,” she said, quickly, “I’m the yellow spotted dog,” and beginning to growl and snap horribly she went down on hands and feet and crawled under a big table in a corner—a favorite play place because it had a long, heavy cover whose sheltering folds concealed a castle, a ship, a railway train, an ogre’s cavern, or any other fancy that Bethany chose to indulge in.

The Judge looked after her submissively. His part was not to rebel, but to await developments.

Then he turned his head to the doorway.

“Sir,” said Jennie, in a puzzled voice, “there’s a little poor girl craving to see you.”

“Bring her up,” said the Judge, promptly, and he tried to think where he had heard that shrill voice before.

Two minutes later he knew, for Airy Tingsby, the smart, pert girl, the head of the Tingsby clan, and the one who had been so saucy and impertinent to him, now stood within a few feet of his chair.