Ned Toodles trotted along the road that beautiful afternoon, and Denise’s joyous mood found a vent in a charming little song which kept time with Ned’s footfalls and to which he occasionally gave a sort of staccato accent, by breaking into a frisky jump. “Sing-Song Polly” rang out over the fields, the song growing gayer and wilder at every bar, till suddenly a second voice took up the theme in a long-drawn, doleful wail, that brought Denise’s warble to an abrupt ending. Ned heard it, too, and gave a little start to one side, for the wail seemed to proceed from the very ground beneath them, and was decidedly uncanny. Denise drew rein quickly, and stopped to listen for further signs of distress. They came very promptly, and a second later she was stooping over a forlorn figure which the low bushes at the roadside nearly concealed.

A little ditch divided the adjacent fields from the road, and at this season of the year the ditch was very apt to be filled with water and inhabited by a flourishing family of tadpoles. Seated upon the ground at the further side of the ditch, her feet firmly embedded in its mud, from which she was vainly striving to withdraw them, was a small child, probably six years of age. She wore a little pink and white checked gingham, which was splashed with mud from top to bottom; her hands were the color of a little darky’s, and her hair, which perhaps had not been in perfect order upon setting out, was now a hopeless snarl and firmly caught in the overhanging branches of the bushes at her back.

Altogether she was in a sorry plight, for she was held fast by head and feet, and, unless some good Samaritan appeared upon the scene to release her, in a fair way to remain a prisoner for some time to come. But she certainly had no intention of submitting meekly to the predicament in which she found herself, if lusty shouts and yells could compass her release.

“My good gracious!” exclaimed Denise, “how in this world did you ever get in there, and stuck tight fast in the mud?”

“I wanted the littule fat fises! I wanted the littule fat fises! I want to get out! I want to get out!” screamed the child, tugging with might and main to free her feet, and thereby only adding to the trouble above.

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” cried Denise. “I must get your hair free before you can move.” But the youngster was beyond all reasoning with, and, turning to Denise, shrieked at the top of her lungs: “Take that old tree away! Take it away, I say!”

“Why don’t you ask me to take the whole woods away, you little goose!” exclaimed Denise with some asperity. “I can’t take the tree away, and if you don’t keep still long enough to let me loosen your hair from the branches, I shall never in the world get you free. Be still!” and she gave the screaming youngster a little shake. It was not much of a shake, but it had the desired effect, and was doubtless the sort of persuasion to which she was accustomed. As a rule Denise was wonderfully gentle with little folk, but here was a situation which needed prompt action, and this small imp seemed determined to frustrate every move she made to help her.

Denise began to unwind the tangled hair, and was just upon the point of releasing the whole mop, when, “Oh! Oh! Ohuu! They’re all tummin’ after me! Oh-h! Ou-u! Ou-u!” and up bounced the youngster, as four or five tadpoles, emboldened by the silence which had prevailed while Denise was absorbed in her task, came swimming toward her, only to vanish at the howl which greeted them. In a twinkling Denise’s labors were undone. Up bobbed the head into the branches, only to be jerked back again by the imprisoned feet, and the hair, caught more firmly than ever, drew down with it a slender branch which gave a stinging lash across the child’s face.

If she had howled before, she outdid herself now when the pain added to her miseries, and Denise was literally at her wit’s end. To ever untangle that hair now was out of the question, and what in the world was to be done? Every moment was adding to the mischief, and the child was becoming nearly frantic. Stepping to one side, Denise drew from her pocket the little knife she always carried, and, opening the largest blade, stepped carefully back to the struggling child. Watching her chance, she grasped her firmly with one arm, and, despite her struggles, held her fast while she cut the hair from the bush. Once that end was freed, she flung the knife out into the road, and set about pulling the other end from the mud. The first jerk produced no effect, but the second resulted in a prolonged “s-k-e-r-S-w-A-P,” and up flew one foot without a shoe, the other foot with so much mud upon it that it looked like nothing in this world but a lump of wet peat, while heels-over-head went Denise and her charge into the bushes behind them. Denise was too frightened to care whether she was hurt or not, but, scrambling to her feet, turned to see what had befallen Miss Pink-Gingham. The howl had been scared out of her, and she was making for the road as fast as her legs would carry her. Once upon terra firma she stood still to wait for her rescuer, sobbing meanwhile in a subdued sort of fashion.

By this time it may easily be imagined what sort of condition Denise was in, but, feeling that it could not possibly be any worse, she clawed down into the mud till she found the missing shoe and drew it out in triumph. As upon one other memorable occasion, the linen duster now served as a towel, and a moment later Denise had scoured off her hands and was turning her attention to the little blackamoor in the road. At sight of the forlorn little figure Denise’s heart melted, but to offer condolence, excepting in the form of words, until some of mother earth had been removed, was obviously impossible. So she rubbed and scraped as she poured forth words of consolation, and ere long had the child as much restored to her normal color as was possible and seated beside her in the phaeton. Then came the question of where to take her, for, although pretty well acquainted with every one in that town, this face was a strange one, and where its owner belonged she did not know.

“Now tell me your name and where you live,” said Denise, soothingly, but, as though the mention of home recalled her recent harrowing experiences, the child began to sob again, and Denise was in despair.

“Oh, please stop crying, and tell me where to take you. See. I will drive you in the carriage wherever you tell me, and Ned Toodles will go ever so fast if you will only let him know where to go.”

“Mabie Lilly—oh!—Taint! Taint—it!” sobbed the child.

“Maybe Lilly—what? Isn’t Lilly your name? Then what is it?” pleaded Denise.

“Oh, Taint-it! Taint-it!” was all she could hear.

“What isn’t it? Lilly? Isn’t Lilly your name?” demanded Denise, inwardly thinking that no name could have been a greater misnomer under existing conditions.

“Yes; yes, Mabie Lilly—boo, hoo. Taint-it! Taint-it!”

“Oh, dear me, what shall I do with her,” wailed Denise, then, thinking to find out the child’s address if she could not learn her name, she asked, “Where do you live?” Tell me that, and I’ll take you straight there.

“In Noo York! In Noo York!” was the climax of a reply.

“Oh, I’ll take you there by the very next train, of course,” cried Denise; “or, perhaps, I’d better turn around and drive there to save time. Where in the world does she belong, I wonder. I’ve never seen her before, but I suppose I might sit here till to-morrow and never find out from her. Go on, Ned, and we’ll see what we can find out from the first person we meet,” for pity, combined with despair of learning who the child was, was a sore tax upon nerves and patience, and, gathering up her reins, she started for the town, the youngster beside her keeping up an incessant sob of “Taint-it; Taint it! Oh, Ma-bie Lilly; Ma-bie Lilly—Taint-it! Taint-it!”

Ned spun along over the road, till at last they came to the section of the town dotted all along the roadside with pretty homes. They were about a quarter of a mile from Denise’s when she spied a man hurrying toward them, gesticulating, and evidently holding an animated conversation with himself. Denise could not help laughing at the figure he cut, for wrath, strong and potent, was written in every gesture. Just at that moment the child saw him also, and, jumping up in the carriage, cried at the top of her lungs: “Oh, Michael! Michael! Here I is! Here I is!” By this time they were nearly up to him, and, stopping short in the road, the man froze to his last gesture and stared at them open-mouthed. Then, shaking his fist at the youngster, he came a step nearer, saying:

“An’ is it yersilf I see a-sittin’ up there in yer illigince, an’ me runnin’ me legs arf me ter search the town fer ye, ye schmall bit av a divil, that has run away twinty times within the past tin days! Faith I’ve a mind ter shake the head arf ye fer the thrubble ye’ve put upon me! An’ yer mither a-screechin’ an’ a-screamin’ that ye’re drownded entirely in the river beyant, an’ fer gettin’ out half the town ter search it fer ye! Arrah, now! Come out av that, an’ let me—Ah! what shall I do wid ye at all, I dunno!” and, reaching over the wheel, the irate Irishman lifted the child out with not the gentlest hand, she protesting and screaming that she wanted to “wide home with the nice young lady dat fised her out of the brook.”

“An’ will ye look at the young lady, ye young limb o’ Satan! See the sthate ye’ve been after puttin’ hersilf an’ her kerrege in! Ah! Miss Denise, an’ it’s a shame, so it is, the dhirt that’s from hid ter ind av yer little wagon.”

“Never mind the mud, Michael. I don’t care about that, for John will soon brush it all out. But who on earth is that child? I thought I knew everybody in Springdale, but I have never seen her before. I thought I should never get her home, because I could not get her to say a single thing when I asked her name, but that maybe it was Lilly, and then she always added, oh, taint it, taint it, till I knew less than before she began to tell it.”

Over Michael’s broad face a smile began to spread itself, till it well-nigh reached from ear to ear, and then, becoming aware of his rudeness, he put his hand over his mouth to suppress the guffaw that would come.

“Oh! Oho! Oho!” cried Michael, spasmodically, his face puckered up as though he were going to sneeze. “Is that what she towld ye? Will I iver hear the bate o’ that! Faith, tis no wonder ye couldn’t make head or tail av it. Shure, she is master’s sister’s choild what is a-visitin’ him fer the last tin days, an’ runnin’ arf iviry blessed one av those tin, wid me chasin’ after her till me legs is worn out. ’Tis Taintit her name is, Mabel Lilly Taintit. Her mother is Mr. Wilson’s sister.”

“Well, it is no wonder I didn’t understand,” cried Denise, as she joined in the laugh, and then turned Ned’s head toward home, as Michael lifted up his charge and turned toward theirs, asserting as he departed that “afther this it’s tied up ye’ll be fer sertain.”