When Joel emerged from Grandpapa King's writing-room, he was hanging to the old gentleman's hand and looking up into his face and chattering away.

"You know it means work," said old Mr. King, looking down at him.

"I know, Grandpapa," said Joel, bobbing his stubby, black head.

"And you must keep at it," said the old gentleman decidedly, "else no pay. There's to be no dropping the job, once you take it up. If you do, you'll get no money. That's the bargain, Joe?"—with a keen glance into the chubby face.

"Oh, I will, Grandpapa, I will," declared Joel eagerly, and hopping up and down; "I'll do every single speck of the work. Now do let us hurry and get the book."

"Yes, we'll hurry, seeing our business arrangement is all settled," laughed the old gentleman. "Now, then, Joel, my boy, we'll go down-town and buy the blank book, so that I can set you to work at once," and he grasped the brown hand tightly, and away they went.

And in ten minutes everybody knew that Joel was going to make a list of all the books in a certain case in old Mr. King's writing-room, and that Grandpapa and he were already off down-town to buy a new blank book for the work. And at the end of it—oh, joy!—Joel was to have a crisp ten-dollar bill to replace the one he had lost.



XI

RACHEL

"Here she comes!" roared Mr. Tisbett. The townspeople, hurrying to Badgertown depot to see the train bearing the new little girl sent on by Mrs. Fisher to their parson's care, crowded up, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson smilingly in the center of the biggest group.

"Oh, husband, I do pity her so!" breathed the parson's wife. "Poor thing, she will be so shy and distressed!" The parson's heart gave a responsive thrill, as he craned his neck to peer here and there for their new charge. "She hasn't come. Oh, dear me!"—as a voice broke in at his elbow.

"I'm here." The words weren't much, to be sure, but the tone was wholly self-possessed, and when the parson whirled around, and Mrs. Henderson, who had been looking the other way, brought her gaze back, they saw a little girl in a dark brown suit, a brown hat under which fell smooth braids of black hair, who was regarding them with a pair of the keenest eyes they had either of them ever seen.

"Oh—oh—my child—" stammered Mr. Henderson, putting out a kind hand. "So you have come, Rachel?"

"Yes, I am Rachel," said the child, looking up into his face and laying her hand in the parson's big one; then she turned her full regard upon the minister's wife.

Mrs. Henderson was divided in her mind, for an instant, whether to kiss this self-possessed child, as she had fully arranged in her mind beforehand to do, or to let such a ceremony go by. But in a breathing space she had her arms about her, and was drawing her to her breast.

"Rachel, dear, I am so glad you have come to us."

Rachel glanced up sharply, heaved a big sigh, and when she lifted her head from Mrs. Henderson's neck, there was something bright that glistened in either eye; she brushed it off before any one could spy it, as the parson was saying:

"And now, where is your bag, child—er—Rachel, I mean?"

Rachel pointed to the end of the platform. "I'll go an' tell 'em to bring it here."

"No, no, child." The parson started briskly.

"Let us all go," said Mrs. Henderson kindly, gathering Rachel's hand up in one of hers. "Come, dear." So off they hurried, the platform's length, the farmers and their wives looking after them with the greatest interest.

"My, but ain't Mrs. Henderson glad to get a girl, though!"

"Yes, she sets by her a'ready."

"Sakes alive! I thought she was a poor child," exclaimed one woman, who was dreadfully disappointed to lose the anticipated object of charity.

"So she is," cried another—"as poor as Job's turkey, but Mr. King has dressed her up, you know, an' he's goin' to edicate her, too."

"Well, she'll pay for it, I reckon. My! she looks smart, even the back of her!"

And before very long, Rachel had been inducted into her room, a pretty little one under the eaves, neat as a pin in blue-and-white chintz covering, around which she had given a swift glance of approval. And now she was down in the parsonage kitchen, in a calico gown and checked apron; her own new brown ribbons having been taken off from her braids, rolled up carefully, and laid in the top drawer, the common, every-day ones taking their places.

Peletiah and Ezekiel were each in a corner of the kitchen, with their pale blue eyes riveted on her.

"Well, dear," Mrs. Henderson greeted her kindly, "you have changed your gown very quickly."

A tall, square-shouldered woman stalked in from the little entry.

"Oh, Jerusha," exclaimed Mrs. Henderson pleasantly, "this is the little girl that Mrs. Fisher sent us. Rachel, go up and speak to Miss Jerusha."

Rachel went over obediently and put out her hand, which the parson's sister didn't seem to see. Instead, she drew herself up stiffer than ever, and stared at the child.

"Ah, well, I hope she won't forget that she's very poor, and that you've taken her out of pity," said Miss Jerusha.

Rachel started back as if shot, and her black eyes flashed. "I ain't poor," she screamed. "I ain't goin' to be pitied."

"Yes, you are, too," declared Miss Jerusha, quite pleased at the effect of her words, and telling off each syllable by bringing one set of bony fingers down on the other emphatically; "in fact, you're a beggar, and my brother——"

"I ain't, ain't, ain't!" screamed Rachel shrilly, and, flinging herself on her face on the floor, she flapped her feet up and down and writhed in distress. "I want to go home!" she sobbed.

The boys, for once in their lives, actually started, and presently they were across the kitchen, to their mother, kneeling by Rachel's side.

"Don't let her go," they said together.

"She isn't going," said Mrs. Henderson, smoothing the shaking shoulders, but Rachel screamed on.

"Dear me!" The parson hurried in at the uproar, his glasses set up on his forehead where his nervous fingers had pushed them. "What is the matter?"

"That poor child," answered Miss Jerusha, pointing a long finger over at the group in the middle of the kitchen, "is acting like Satan. I guess you'll repent, brother, ever bringing her here."

"'Twas Aunt Jerusha," declared Peletiah bluntly, "and I wish she'd go home."

"Hush, hush, dear," said his mother, looking up into his face.

There was an awful pause, the parson drew a long breath, then he turned to his sister.

"Jerusha," he said, "I wish you would go into the sitting-room, if you please."

"An' let you pet that beggar child," she exclaimed, in shrill scorn, but she stalked off.

Mr. Henderson went swiftly across the kitchen and knelt down by his wife.

"Rachel"—he put his hand on the little girl's head—"get directly up, my child!"

Rachel lifted her eyes, and peered about. "Has she gone—that dreadful, bad, old woman?"

"There is no one here but those who love you," said the minister. "Now, child, get directly up and sit in that chair." He indicated the one, and in a minute Rachel was perched on it, with streaming eyes. Peletiah, having started to get a towel, and in his trepidation presenting the dish-rag, the parson dried her tears on his own handkerchief.

"Now, then, that is better," he said, in satisfaction, as they all grouped around her chair.

"Rachel, there mustn't be anything of this sort—tears, I mean—again. That lady is my sister, and——"

"Your sister!" screamed Rachel, precipitating herself forward on her chair in imminent danger of falling on her nose, to gaze at him in amazement.

"Yes"—a dull red flush crept over the minister's face—"and—and whatever she says, Rachel, why, you are not to mind, child."

"She ain't a-goin' to sass me," declared Rachel stoutly.

"Well, I don't believe she will again; let us hope not," said Mr. Henderson, in a worried way. "However, you are not to cry; remember that, Rachel, whatever happens," he added firmly: "you are to be happy here; this is your home, and we all love you."

"You do?" said Rachel, much amazed, looking at them all. "Oh, well, then, I'll stay." And slipping down from her chair, she seized Mrs. Henderson's apron. "What'll I do? Mrs. Fisher told me how to wash dishes. May I do 'em?"

"Yes, and the boys shall wipe them," said Mrs. Henderson, and pretty soon there was a gay little bustle in the old kitchen, the parson staying away from the writing of the sermon to see it.

But Peletiah and Ezekiel were much too slow to suit Rachel, who got far ahead of them, so she flew to the drawer in the big table where she had seen them get the dish-towels, and, helping herself, she fell to work drying some of the big pile in the drainer in the sink.

"I don't see how you can go so fast," observed Peletiah, laboriously polishing up his plate.

"Well, I don't see how you can go so slow," retorted Rachel, with deft passes of the towel over the cup. "My! I sh'd think your elbows had gone to sleep."

"They haven't gone to sleep," said Peletiah, who was always literal; and setting down his plate, half-dried, on the table, he turned over one arm to investigate.

"Of course not, you little ninny," said Rachel lightly. "I didn't——"

"Rachel, Rachel!" said the parson's wife, over by the table. She was getting her material together for baking pies, and she now added gently, "We don't call each other names, you must remember that, child."

"Oh!" said Rachel. She stopped her busy towel a minute to think, then it flapped harder and faster, to make up for lost time.

"Well, go ahead," she said to Peletiah, "and wipe your plate."

So Peletiah, letting his elbows take care of themselves, picked up his plate and set to work on its surface again; and pretty soon the dishes were all declared done, the pan and mop washed out, and hung up.

"What'll I do next?" Rachel smoothed down her apron and stood before the baking-table, a boy on either side.

"Now, boys," said Mrs. Henderson, pausing in her work of rolling out the pie crust, "I think you had better take Rachel down to see Grandma Bascom. I've told her she's coming to-day, and she's quite impatient to see her. And, Rachel, you can tell her about Mrs. Fisher and Polly and the boys. And oh, Rachel, be sure to tell her about Phronsie; she does just love that child so!"

The parson's wife leaned on the rolling-pin, and a bright color came into her face.

"I'll tell her," said Rachel, a soft gleam in her eyes, and smoothing her apron.

"And, Peletiah, go into the buttery, and get that little pat of butter done up in a cloth, and give it to Grandma. I do wish my pies were baked"—and she fell to work again—"so I could send her one."

So Peletiah went into the buttery and got the pat of butter, and the three started off. The parson stepped away from the doorway into the entry, where he had been silently watching proceedings, and went over to the window.

"Come here, Almira." He held out his hand.

She dropped her rolling-pin and ran over to his side. He drew her to him.

"See, dear," he said.

Rachel and the two boys were proceeding over the greensward leading down the road. She had one on either side; and, wonder of wonders, they were all hand in hand.

"We're going to see your Gran," said Rachel, a very sober expression settling over her thin little face.

"What?" said Peletiah.

"Your Gran; that's what your mother said."

"Oh, no, she didn't," contradicted Peletiah; "we are going to Grandma Bascom's."

"Well, that's the same thing," said Rachel; "she's your Gran, isn't she?"

"She's Grandma Bascom," repeated Peletiah stolidly.

"Oh, dear me! of course! But she's your Gran, isn't she?"—her tongue fairly aching to call him "ninny" again.

"No, she isn't; she isn't any one's Gran—she's just Grandma Bascom."

"Oh!" said Rachel. Perhaps it wasn't so very bad as she feared. She would wait and see.

"She's dreadfully deaf," remarked Peletiah.

"What's that?"

"She can't hear unless you scream."

Rachel burst into a loud laugh, but it was very musical; and before they knew it, although they were very much astonished, the two boys were laughing, too, though they hadn't the least idea at what.

"I'm glad of it," announced Rachel, when she had gotten through. "I love to scream. Sometimes it seems as if I'd die if I couldn't. Don't you?"

"No, I don't," said Peletiah, "ever feel so."

"Don't you?" Rachel leaned over to peer into Ezekiel's face.

"No, I don't, either," he said.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Rachel, catching her breath. "Well, let's run." And before either boy knew what was going to happen, she was hauling them along at such a mad pace as they had never before in all their lives indulged in.

The butter-pat slipped out of Peletiah's hand, gone on the wind, and landed on the roadside grass.

"Wasn't that a good one!" cried Rachel, her eyes shining, as she brought up suddenly. "Oh, my! ain't things sweet, though!"—wrinkling up her nose in delight.

"I lost the butter-pat," observed Peletiah, when he could get his breath.

"I never see anything so beautiful," Rachel was saying, over and over. Then she flung herself flat on the grass, and buried her nose in it, smelling it hungrily. "Oh, my!"

"I lost the butter-pat," observed Peletiah again, and standing over her.

"And I'm a-goin' to live here," declared Rachel, in a transport, and wriggling in the sweet clover, "if I'm good. I'm goin' to be good all the time. Yes, sir!"

"I lost the butter-pat," repeated Peletiah.

"Butter-pat?" Rachel caught the last words and sprang to her feet.

"Oh, yes, I forgot; we must hurry with the butter-pat. Come on!" and she whirled around on Peletiah. "Why, where—?" as she saw his empty hands.

"I lost the butter-pat," said Peletiah. "I've been telling you so."

"No, you haven't," contradicted Rachel flatly.

"Yes, I have," said Peletiah stolidly.

"No such thing." Rachel squared up to him, her black eyes flashing. "You haven't said a single word, you bad, wicked boy."

"Yes, I have," repeated Peletiah, ready to say it over for all time; "I've told you so a great many times."

Rachel looked at him, and put up both hands. The only thing proper to do under such circumstances was to shake him smartly, but it seemed so like attacking a granite post, and besides, he was the minister's son, and she was going to be good, else they must send her away (so Mrs. Fisher had said), so her arms flopped down to her side, and hung there dismally. And she burst out:

"Where did you lose it, you nin—? I mean—oh, dear me!—where, I say?"—frowning impatiently.

"Back there," said Peletiah, pointing down the road. "You pulled me along so, it flew out of my hand."

Rachel set her teeth together hard.

"Come on!"

She seized a hand of each boy, Ezekiel being a silent spectator all the time; and if they went fast before, this time, in retracing their steps, it might be called flying, till a little spot on the roadside grass showed the object of their search. Peletiah's breath was gone entirely by this time, and he sank down by its side without a word, his brother following suit.

"I shall carry it now," announced Rachel, gathering up the little pat, safe in its white cloth. "My! 'tain't hurt a bit" She brushed off a few marauding ants. "Come on, now!"

Peletiah struggled to his feet and gasped, "I shall carry it," and put out his hands.

"No such thing." Rachel held the butter-pat firmly in her slender, brown hand. "My! you ain't fit to carry no butter-pats—let 'em drop out of your hands. Come on!"

"I shall carry it," declared Peletiah doggedly, and bringing his pale eyes to bear on her face, while he stood still in his tracks.

"I hope you may get it," cried Rachel triumphantly. "I never see such a boy. Come on, I say." She held out her hand with authority.

"My mother said I was to carry the butter-pat, and I shall carry it," said Peletiah, putting out one hand for it, and the other behind his back.

Rachel wrinkled her brows and thought a minute.

"So she did," she said. Then she set the butter-pat in Peletiah's hand, and pinched his thumb down over it. "There, hold on to it," she said, "or you'll lose it again. Now, come on!"

The way back was conducted on slower lines, as Rachel had an anxious oversight lest the butter-pat should again be taken off on the wind, so that Peletiah and Ezekiel had a chance to recover their breath, with some degree of composure, by the time they turned down the lane to Grandma Bascom's. There she was, sitting in her big chintz-covered chair, resting after the morning's work, as they found on entering the little old kitchen.

Rachel's eyes had been getting bigger and bigger, though she had said nothing tip to this time; but when they rested on the old lady's face, under the big, frilled cap, she burst out sharply:

"Is that your Gran?"

"She isn't my Gran," replied Peletiah.

"No, she isn't," echoed Ezekiel.

"Well, is she Gran?" demanded Rachel impatiently—"anybody's Gran—just Gran? Say, is she?"

"No, she isn't Gran," said Peletiah, shaking his head of stiff, light hair.

"Oh, dear me! you said so," cried Rachel, in a high, disappointed key. "Oh, dear, dear, dear! I wish she was." And, terribly afraid she was going to cry, she marched off to the little-paned window, and twisted her fingers into knots.

"She's Grandma," said Ezekiel, walking over to her and peering around her side.

"Oh, then she is," cried Rachel, springing around. "Say"—she seized his jacket—"she's my Gran, an'——"

"Grandma, I said," repeated Ezekiel.

"Yes, yes, Grandma; well, she's mine."

"She's all our Grandma," said Ezekiel decidedly.

"Yes, yes, but she's mine, too," declared Rachel, bobbing her head decidedly. "She shall be my Gran—Grandma. I shall just take her, so there!"

"You musn't take her away," said Ezekiel, in alarm.

"I ain't goin' to; I don't want to. I'm goin' to live here always an' forever," declared Rachel firmly.

Ezekiel smiled at that in great satisfaction, and the matter being settled, Rachel skipped over to the old lady's chair, and looked steadily down into the wrinkled face.

"Go out and put the butter-pat somewhere," she said to Peletiah, who still held it in his hand, waiting to present it.

"I must give it to Grandma," he said; "my mother told me to."

"Well, you can't while she's asleep," said Rachel quickly, "so you put it somewhere—anywhere—and when she wakes up, why, you can give it to her. Do hurry—and you go and help him."

So the two boys walked off to find a place in the buttery, and quick as lightning Rachel leaned over and set a kiss on the wrinkled old cheek. If Grandma couldn't hear, she was very quick at feeling,

"Why!" She stirred uneasily in her chair, and opened her eyes.

"Who is this?" she asked, staring at the strange little girl, for although the parson's wife had told her all about the new member of the family to come that day, Grandma was so bewildered by being suddenly aroused from her sleep, she had forgotten all about it. "Hey, who is it?"

Peletiah, not having had time to put down the butter-pat, now came up and presented it with all due formality.

"But who is this little gal?" asked Grandma, as he set the butter-pat in the middle of the checked apron over her lap.

"She's Rachel," said Peletiah.

"Eh? What?" Grandma held a shaking hand behind her ear. "Speak a little louder, Peletiah; you know I'm a-growin' hard o' hearin', just a grain."

"Rachel," shouted Peletiah, as he stood still in his tracks in front of her.

"Ain't well! Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Grandma, in a tone of great concern. "What a pity!" and she turned and regarded the stranger with anxiety.

"Oh, dear me! You get away, Peletiah," commanded Rachel, brushing him aside. So Peletiah, very glad to be released, moved off, and Rachel, putting her mouth to the nodding cap-border, said very distinctly:

"Mrs. Fisher sent me to live at the minister's; I'm Rachel."

"Oh, my land o' Goshen!" exclaimed Grandma Bascom, lifting both hands in delight. "Why, I can hear you splendid. You see, I'm only a grain deaf. An' so you're that little gal. Well, I'm glad you've come, you pretty creeter, you!"



XII

DOINGS AT THE PARSONAGE

And in another minute Rachel was telling all about Mrs. Fisher and Polly and Phronsie—oh, and Joel and David—for Grandma kept interrupting and asking all sorts of questions, so that the news and messages were all tangled up together.

"Did Joel say he wanted pep'mints?" asked Grandma, in a lull.

"Oh, yes, he said yours were awful good, and he wished he had some of 'em," Rachel answered. She didn't dare take her mouth away from the cap-frill, and her feet ached dreadfully from standing still so long. But Grandma was as bright as a button, and hungry for every scrap of information.

"Land o' Goshen!" mourned Grandma, "how I wish he was comin' in now! an' I'd give him plenty." She sat still for a minute, lost in thought. Peletiah and Ezekiel had wandered off outside, where they sat under the lilac bushes, to rest after their unwonted exercise, so the hens, undisturbed, stepped over the sill of the kitchen door, and scratched and picked about to their hearts' content.

"I'll drive 'em out," said Rachel, delighted at the chance of action this would give her, and springing off.

"Take the broom," screamed Grandma after her, "and then hurry and come back and tell me some more."

So Rachel, wishing the duty could be an hour long, shooed and waved her broom wildly, and ran and raced, and the fat old hens tumbled over each other to get away. And then she came slowly back to Grandma's side, to go over again every bit she had told before. Until, looking up at the old clock on the shelf, she saw that it was one minute of twelve o'clock.

"Oh, my! I've got to go," she screamed in Grandma's ear, and without another word she dashed off and up to the lilac bushes. "Boys, come this minute." She held out both hands. "It's awful late."

"I know it," said Peletiah, with a very grieved face; "we've been waiting for you ever so long, and dinner's ready at home."

"Well, come now." She stuck her long arms out straight, and shook her fingers impatiently. "Oh, dear me—do hurry!"

"I ain't goin' to take hold of hands," declared Peletiah, edging off.

"Nor I, either," echoed Ezekiel.

"Oh, yes, you must." And without waiting for more words on the matter, Rachel seized a hand of each, and bore off the boys.

If they ran before, they flew now. But all the same they were late to dinner, and the parson and his wife and Miss Jerusha were all helped around, and had begun to eat.

"There, see what that new girl has done already," said Miss Jerusha sternly, laying down her knife and fork. "Peletiah and Ezekiel ain't ever late. Well, you'll see trouble enough with her, or I'll miss my guess."

Peletiah sank down on the upper step of the piazza, but Ezekiel crept into the kitchen, while Rachel pushed boldly up to Mrs. Henderson's chair.

"Oh, I'm awful sorry," she said. Her face was very flushed and her eyes glowed with the run.

"Ben gallivantin' off an' temptin' the boys to play," declared Miss Jerusha, with a shrewd nod of her brown front. "Oh, I know."

"We won't say any more about it now, dear," said Mrs. Henderson gently, at sight of the hot little face. "There, get into your chair, this one next to me. Where's Peletiah?"—looking about.

"Oh, I'm awful tired," wailed Ezekiel, slipping into his seat next to the parson, and he drew the back of his hand across his red face.

"Ben playing so hard," said Miss Jerusha disagreeably, "an' now you're all het up."

"I haven't played a single bit," declared Ezekiel stoutly, and with a very injured expression of countenance. "Oh, dear me, I AM so tired!" stretching his legs under the table.

"Eat your dinner, my son," said the parson, putting a liberal portion on his plate.

"Oh, dear me!" Ezekiel essayed to, but laid down his spoon. "I don't want anything, I'm so tired."

Mrs. Henderson cast an anxious glance over at him.

"No need to worry," her husband telegraphed back, going quietly on with his own dinner. Rachel had begun on hers with hungry zest, but stopped suddenly, hopped out of her chair, and raced to the door.

"Rachel!" It wasn't a loud voice, but she found herself back again and looking into Mrs. Henderson's face.

"Sit down, dear; we do not leave the table in that way."

So Rachel slipped into her seat, feeling as if all the blood in her body were in her hot cheeks.

"Now, what is it?" The parson's wife took one of the brown hands working nervously under the tablecloth. "Tell me; don't be afraid," she said softly. But Miss Jerusha heard.

"Stuff and nonsense!" she exclaimed, with a sneer. "When I was a child, there was no such coddlin' goin' on, I can tell you."

"It's Peletiah," said Rachel. "Oh, dear me! he's out on the piazza, and he must be awfully hungry. Can't I make him come in?"

"No, sit still. Husband"—the parson's wife looked down the table—"excuse me a minute." She slipped out, and in another moment in she came, and Peletiah with her.

And then Mr. Henderson told such a funny story about a monkey he had read about only just that very morning, that Ezekiel forgot there ever was such a thing as tired legs, and even Peletiah had no thoughts for that dreadful run home from Grandma Bascom's.

As for Rachel, all idea of dinner flew at once out of her head. She laid down her knife and fork and leaned forward with sparkling eyes, to catch every word. Seeing which, Mrs. Henderson burst out laughing.

"I'm afraid you are making things worse, husband," she said, "for they won't eat any dinner at all now."

"I surely am," said the parson, with another laugh, "and I thought I was going to help so much," he added ruefully.

"How you can laugh," exclaimed Miss Jerusha sourly, at the good time in progress, and sitting quite stiffly, "I don't for my part see."

"Oh, well, if you'd laugh more, it would be better for all of us, Jerusha," said her brother good-naturedly.

"I ain't a-goin' to laugh," declared Miss Jerusha, "and it's a wicked, sinful shame to set such an example before those boys, like coddlin' up that girl for keepin' them off playin'. I never see such goin's on!"

"We haven't been playing," said Peletiah stoutly.

"I told her so," said Ezekiel fretfully, seeing that his father had no more monkey stories to offer, "but she keeps saying it just the same. I wish she'd go off and play," he added vindictively.

The idea of Miss Jerusha ever having played, made Rachel turn in her chair and regard her fixedly. Then she broke out into a laugh; it was such a merry peal that presently the boys joined in, and even the parson and his wife had hard work to keep their faces straight.

"Well, if I ever see such goin's on!" Miss Jerusha shoved back her chair and stalked out of the room.

"Did she ever play?" asked Rachel, when the door into the keeping-room had slammed.

"Why, yes, of course, child," said Mrs. Henderson, with a smile, "when she was a little girl."

"And was she ever a little girl?" persisted Rachel.

"Why, certainly. Now eat your dinner, Rachel."

Rachel picked up her knife and fork. When the two boys saw that she was ready to really begin on her meal, they set to on theirs.

"I'm awful hungry," announced Peletiah, when he had been working busily on his plateful.

The parson burst out into a laugh, like a boy.

"Hush, husband," warned Mrs. Henderson; "I'm afraid Jerusha will hear."

"I can't help it, Almira." His eyes were brimming with amusement. "Our boys are getting waked up already."

"I ain't asleep," declared Peletiah, looking up at his father in amazement; "I'm eating my dinner."

"So am I," announced Ezekiel wisely, and putting out his plate for another potato.

"So I see," said his father gravely. "Well, now we're all getting on very well," he added, in great satisfaction, with a glance around the table. "Good-bye; you must excuse me, wife; you know I must get over to the funeral early."

"Is old Miss Bedlow dead, Ma?" asked Peletiah, pausing in the act of getting some gravy to his mouth.

"Yes, dear. Take care, Peletiah, and pay attention to your dinner."

Peletiah set down the mouthful on his plate. "I hain't got to go, have I, Ma?" he asked, in trepidation.

"No, dear; now go on with your dinner, and don't say 'hain't.'"

"I'm glad I haven't got to go," observed Peletiah, with a long sigh of relief, and beginning on his dinner once more. "I don't like funerals."

"I do." Rachel bobbed her black head at him across the table, and her eyes roved excitedly. "I've seen lots an' lots of 'em in the city. They're fine, I tell you." She laid down her knife and fork again and waved her arms. "Oh, a string of carriages as long—an' the corpse is sometimes in a white box, and heaps of flowers. I like 'em next to the circus."

"There, there, Rachel, eat your dinner, child," broke in Mrs. Henderson quickly. "And, boys, don't talk any more. You must get through dinner, for I have to go to Miss Bedlow's by two o'clock," and she got out of her chair and began to clear the table.

So all that was to be heard now in the parsonage kitchen was the pleasant rattle of knives and forks, and the bustle of clearing up, and presently the children hopped out of their chairs and began to help Mrs. Henderson to set everything in order.

"I'm goin' to wash every single thing up," announced Rachel, hurrying for the mop.

"Can you, dear?" asked the parson's wife. She was very tired, and yet had the funeral of the old parishioner to attend. But the risk seemed great of allowing the new little girl to do up all the dinner dishes. "There are a great many of them, and some of them are big"—glancing doubtfully around the piles. "Are you sure you can manage them?"

"Why, yes," declared Rachel in scorn, "I can do 'em all just as easy!" She stopped to snap her fingers at the greasy plates, then ran over to get the big teakettle on the stove in a twinkling.

"Let Peletiah carry that for you," said Mrs. Henderson.

"He's so slow," said Rachel, but she stopped obediently.

"Rachel, there is one thing"—and the parson's wife came over and put her hand on the thin little shoulder—"we all help each other in this house, and we never talk against one."

"Oh," said Rachel.

Peletiah by this time had advanced on the teakettle, and, as soon as he could, he bore it off and solemnly poured a goodly supply of boiling-hot water into the waiting dishpan.

"Now you boys are to wipe the dishes for Rachel," said their mother, with an approving glance at the group.

"I'd rather," began Rachel, wrinkling up her face.

"So remember; and when you are through, and the kitchen is set up neatly, you may all play out of doors this afternoon, for lessons don't begin for you until to-morrow, Rachel. And now be good children."

"I don't like lessons," said Peletiah, when they were left alone.

"Don't you?" exclaimed Rachel, in astonishment, and resting her soapy hands on the edge of the dishpan.

"No, I don't," declared Peletiah, with great deliberation, "like them at all."

"Well, I shall, I know." Rachel twitched off her hands and slapped the mop down smartly among the cups in the hot water.

"Ow! you splashed me all over," exclaimed Ezekiel. "See there, now, Rachel." He stepped hack and held up his arm.

"Phoo! that's nothing," said Rachel.

"It hurt; it's hot," said Ezekiel, squirming about.

"Well, if you ain't a baby!" cried Rachel scornfully.

"My mother said we weren't to call names," observed Peletiah.

"Oh, my! I forgot that. But he is a baby," declared Rachel.

"My mother said we were not to call names," repeated Peletiah, exactly as if he hadn't made that remark before.

"Oh, dear me! how perfectly awful you—I mean I never saw such boys. Oh, my!"

"My mother said——"

"Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Rachel, splashing away for dear life; "well, now we must hurry and get these dishes done."

"And then we can go out and play," said Ezekiel, departing with the plate he was drying to a safe distance from the hot shower from Rachel's busy fingers.

"Yes. Oh, my, what fun! Let's hurry." And before the boys quite knew how, the dishes were all piled in the pantry, the dishpan and mop washed out and hung up to dry, and the crumbs swept from the kitchen floor.

"There," said Rachel, smoothing down her apron in great satisfaction, "now we can go out. Come on, I'm going to the corner to see that funeral go by."

"We can't," said Peletiah, trying his best to hurry after her. "Mother doesn't let us go out of the yard when she's away; and beside, there isn't any corner—the road just goes round."

"Oh, bother!" Rachel whirled around and stamped her foot impatiently.

"And 'twill come past our house," contributed Ezekiel, gaining her side, "so let's sit on the doorstep till it comes."

"And you can tell us about the funerals you've seen in the city," suggested Peletiah, who had been thinking about them ever since.

"All right," said Rachel, seeing she was not to lose sight of the parade she so dearly loved. "Whoopity—la!" She flung herself down on the long, flat doorstone, and whipped her gown neatly away on either side. "I'm goin' to sit in the middle."

The boys, very much pleased at this arrangement, which they would never have thought of suggesting, sat down sedately in their places and folded their hands in their laps.

"Now tell about those funerals," said Peletiah.

"Well, let me think," said Rachel, reflecting; "you see, I've seen so many. Hmm! Oh, I know!" She jumped so suddenly that she came near precipitating Ezekiel, who was leaning forward to attain a better view of her face, off into the middle of the peony bed.

"Take care!" Rachel twitched him back into his place. "Yes, I'm goin' to tell you about one perfectly splendid funeral I see just——"

"You mustn't say 'see,'" corrected Peletiah, with disapproval. He was fairly longing for the recital, but it would never do to let such a slip in conversation pass.

"Well, what shall I say, then?" cried Rachel pertly, and not at all pleased at the interruption.

"You must say 'saw.'"

"I didn't saw it; you can't saw a thing," she declared contemptuously. "You've got to see it, or else you can't say you did. So there, Pel—Pel—whatever your name is."

"My name is Peletiah," he said solemnly,

"Peletiah—oh. dear me!" Rachel put her face between her two hands and began to giggle.

"Tell about the funeral," said Ezekiel, twitching her sleeve.

"And you must say 'saw,'" reiterated Peletiah.

"I can't; 'tain't right, an' I ain't a-goin' to say 'saw' to please you, so there, now!" declared Rachel, bringing up her head and setting her mouth obstinately.

"Then I ain't going to sit here," said Peletiah, getting off from the door-stone, "because my mother wouldn't like it; she always makes me say 'saw.'"

"Does she?" cried Rachel, a little red spot coming on either cheek. "Does she, Pele—Pele—say, does she?"

"Yes, she does," said Peletiah, moving off slowly.

"Well, then, I'll say it. Came back and sit down; I'll say it. Saw, saw, saw. There, now"—as Peletiah, very much delighted, settled back into his place. "Well, you know this was a great big-bug who was buried, and——"

"A big bug!" exclaimed Peletiah, terribly disappointed. "I don't want to hear of any bugs; tell about a funeral," he commanded loudly.

"I am tellin' you; keep still an' you'll hear it. Well, he was a gre—at big-bug, an'——"

"Who was?" cried Ezekiel, dreadfully puzzled.

"This man who was to be buried—this one I'm tellin' you of. Do keep still, an' you'll hear if you don't stop me every minute."

"You said it was a bug," said Peletiah, in loud disapproval, on the further side.

"Well, so he was," declared Rachel, turning around to him. "Some men are big-bugs, an' some men are only little mean ones. But this one I'm tellin' you about was, oh, an awful big one," and she spread her arms with a generous sweep to indicate his importance.

"Men aren't ever bugs," said Peletiah decidedly.

"Oh, yes, they are."

"No, they ain't," he declared obstinately.

"My mother says we mustn't contradict," put in Ezekiel, with a reproving glance at him across Rachel's lap.

Peletiah unfolded his hands in extreme distress, but he couldn't say that men were bugs, so he sat still.

"Anyway, they are in the city, where I lived," said Rachel, "so never mind. Well, this funeral was just too splendid for anythin'. In the first place there was——"

"Oh, it's coming," cried Ezekiel, pricking up his ears. "Miss Bedlow's funeral's coming."

Rachel gave a jump that carried her off from the door-stone and quite a piece down the box-bordered path. She was hanging over the gate when the boys came up.

"Where?" she said. "I don't see any."

A small, black, high-topped wagon went by, the old horse at a jog trot, and after it came a two-seated rockaway, and after that a carryall, and around the curve in the road appeared more vehicles of the same patterns, tapering off to a line of chaises and gigs.

"Why, that's the funeral," said Peletiah, in solemn enjoyment, and pointing a finger at it; "it's going by now."

"What!" exclaimed Rachel, horribly disappointed. Then she flew away from the gate and turned her back on it all. "I wish I was back in the city!" she said.



XIII

"SHE'S GOING TO STAY HERE FOREVER"

It was dreadful; and after she had said it, Rachel stood overwhelmed with distress. "Don't you tell your father." She whirled around and clutched Peletiah's sleeve.

"We must," he said; "he's the minister, and we have to tell him everything."

"Well, don't tell your mother, anyway," she begged anxiously.

"We must," said Peletiah again, "because we tell her everything, too."

"Then she'll send me back." Rachel, quite gone in despair, gave a loud cry and threw herself face downward on the grass, where she sobbed as if her heart would break.

This was so much worse than he had imagined, as any possible effect from his words, that Peletiah couldn't speak, but stood over her in silent misery. Seeing this, Ezekiel took matters into his own hands.

"I'm going to run after the funeral and get Ma to come home; she'll be at the top of the procession," and he moved off toward the gateway.

"Stop!" Rachel squealed; then she sprang to her feet. "Don't you stir a step, you!" she commanded.

"They're all hearing you," observed Peletiah, who, seeing Rachel upon her feet, found his spirits reviving, and he pointed to the line of buggies and chaises. "See 'em looking back; my father won't like it."

"Oh, dear me!" Rachel struggled with her sobs. "You shouldn't 'a' told me you had 'em. That ain't a funeral."

"It is, too," declared Peletiah; "it's Miss Bedlow's funeral, and my Pa is going to bury her."

"It ain't, either; an' that's a baker's cart," said Rachel, pointing to the departing hearse with scorn.

"Oh, oh, what a story!" exclaimed Ezekiel, who was just on the point of reproving his brother for contradicting, and he pointed his brown finger at her. "That's got Miss Bedlow in, and they're taking her to the burying-ground, and it's her funeral."

"Well, I don't want to go back to the city," said Rachel hastily, dismissing Miss Bedlow and her funeral and all discussion thereon summarily, and she dug the toe of her shoe into the gravel; "don't let your mother send me back."

"You said you wished you were back there," observed Peletiah severely, fixing his pale eyes on her distressed face, along which the tears were making little paths.

"Well, I don't care. I don't want to go. Don't let her!" She seized his arm and shook it smartly.

"You're shaking me!" said Peletiah, in astonishment.

"I know it, an' I'm goin' to," said Rachel, stamping her foot.

"You ain't going to shake my brother," declared Ezekiel loudly, "and we'll make you go back if you shake us," he added vindictively.

"Oh, dear, dear!" Rachel dropped Peletiah's arm, and she hid her face in her hands. "Don't make me go back," she wailed. "It's too dreadful there, for Mrs. Fisher won't have me if you send me away, 'n' Gran 'll get hold of me somehow—she'll—she'll find me, I know she will," and she shivered all over.

"Who's Gran?" Peletiah drew quite near.

"She's Gran," said Rachel, shivering again. "Oh, dear! don't ask me; and she beat me dreadful, an'—" her voice broke.

"She beat you?" cried Peletiah.

"Awful," said Rachel, cramming her fingers into her mouth to keep from crying. "Oh, dear, dear! don't send me back."

Peletiah took two or three steps off, then came back.

"You may shake me if you want to," he said generously, "and you ain't going back."

"Well, she isn't going to shake me," said Ezekiel stoutly, "and my Ma will send her back if she shakes me, so there!"

"I hain't shook you yet," said Rachel, disclosing her black eyes between her fingers and viewing him with cold disdain.

"Well, you ain't going to," repeated Ezekiel, with decision.

"Her Gran beat her." Peletiah went over to his brother. "She beat Rachel." He kept repeating it, over and over; meanwhile Ezekiel moved about in confusion, digging the toes of his shoes into the gravel to hide it.

"Well, she ain't going to shake me," he said, but it was in a fainter voice, and he didn't look at Rachel's eyes.

"And you mustn't ask Mother to send her back," said Peletiah stubbornly.

"She ain't going to shake me." It was now so low that scarcely any one could hear it.

"And you mustn't ask Mother to send her back," said Peletiah again. "She's going to stay here just for ever and ever."

There was something in his tone that made Ezekiel hasten to say:

"Oh, I won't."

"And I won't shake you," said Rachel, flying out from behind her hands and up to him, "if you'll only let me stay here; just let me stay," she cried, hungrily.

"Well," said Ezekiel, with a great deal of condescension, "if you won't shake me, you may stay at our house."

So the children went back to the flat door-stone to talk it over, Peletiah saying:

"Maybe you can go to school with us next fall."

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Rachel, with wide eyes, and clasping her hands, "I've got to learn a lot first."

"Yes, my father's got to teach you first," said Peletiah.

"Where's he going to do it?" Rachel leaned over to get a comprehensive view of his face.

"In his study," answered Peletiah.

"Where's that?"

"That's where he writes his sermons in, that he preaches at people Sundays," said Ezekiel, finding it very pleasant to be communicative, now that he was quite sure the new girl would not shake him.

"Oh, how nice!" breathed Rachel. "That's scrumptious!"

"That's what?" asked Peletiah critically.

"Scrumptious. Haven't you ever heard that? Oh, what a nin—I mean, oh, how funny!"

"And it ain't nice at all to have my father teach you," said Peletiah, with very doleful ideas of that study.

"Why?" asked Rachel, with gathering dread.

"Oh, he makes you learn things," said Peletiah dismally, drawing a long sigh at the remembrance.

"But that's just what I want to do," cried Rachel, with sparkling eyes; "I'm goin' to learn an' learn, till I can't learn no more."

Peletiah was so occupied in edging off from her that he forgot to correct her speech.

"Yes, I'm goin' to learn," exclaimed Rachel, in a glad little shout, and, springing to her feet, she swung her arms over her head. "I'm goin' to read an' I'm goin' to write, an' then I can write a letter to my Phronsie."

She ended up with a cheese, plunging down on the grass and puffing out her gown like a small balloon.

"You can't do that," she said, nodding triumphantly up at the two boys.

"I don't want to," said Peletiah, sitting still on the door-stone.

"Well, you can't, anyway, 'cause you haven't got a frock. Well, now, let's play," and she hopped to her feet. "Come on. What'll it be?"

"I'll show you the brook," volunteered Ezekiel, getting up.

"What's a brook?" asked Rachel.

"Hoh—hoh!" Ezekiel really laughed, it was so funny. "She doesn't know what a brook is," he said, and he laughed again.

"Well, what is it?" demanded Rachel, laughing good-naturedly.

"It's water."

"I don't want to see any water," said Rachel, turning off disdainfully; "there's nothing pretty in that."

"But it's awfully pretty," said Peletiah; "it runs all down over the stones, and under the trees and——"

"Where is it?" cried Rachel, running up to him in great excitement. "Oh, take me to it."

"It's just back of the house," said Ezekiel; "I'll show you the way."

But Rachel, once directed, got there first, and was down on her knees on the bank, dabbling her hands in the purling little stream, half wild with delight.

And when the parson and his wife got home from Miss Bedlow's funeral, they found the three children there, perfectly absorbed in the labor of sailing boats of cabbage leaves, and guiding their uncertain craft in and out the shimmering pools and down through the tiny rapids. And they watched them unobserved.

"But I dread to-morrow, when I give her the first lesson," said the parson, as they stood unperceived in the shadow of the trees; "everything else is a splendid success."

"Let us hope the lessons will be, too, husband," said Mrs. Henderson, a happy light in her eyes.

"I hope so, but I'm afraid the child is all for play, and will be hard to teach," he said, with a sigh.

But on the morrow—well, the minister came out of his study when the lesson hour was over, with a flush on his face that betokened pleasure as well as hard work. And Rachel began to skip around for very joy. She was really to be a little student, Mr. Henderson had said. Not that Rachel really knew what that meant exactly, but the master was pleased, and that was enough, and all of a sudden, when she was putting up some dishes in the keeping-room closet, she began to sing.

Mrs. Henderson nearly dropped the dish she was wiping.

"Why, my child!" she exclaimed, then stopped, but Rachel didn't hear her, and sang on. It was a wild little thing that she had heard from the hand organs and the people singing it in the streets of the big city.

Just then old Miss Parrott's stately, ancestral coach drove up. The parson's wife hurried to the front door, which was seldom opened except for special company like the present.

"I heard," said Miss Parrott, as Mrs. Henderson ushered her in, "that you'd taken a little girl out of charity, and I want to see you and your husband about it."

"Will you come into his study, then?" said Mrs. Henderson. "Husband has gone out to work in his garden, and I will call him in."

Miss Parrott stepped into the apartment in stately fashion, her black silk gown crackling pleasantly as she walked, and seated herself very primly, as befitted her ancestry and bringing-up, in one of the stiff, high-backed chairs. And presently the parson, his garden clothes off and his best coat on, came in hurriedly to know his honored parishioner's bidding.

"I will come to the point at once," said Miss Parrott, with dignified precision, as he sat beside her, and she drew herself up stiffer yet, in the pleasing confidence that what she was about to say would strike both of her hearers as the most proper thing to do. "You have taken this little girl, I hear, to educate and bring up."

"For a time," said the minister, hurriedly.

"Very true, for a period of time," said Miss Parrott throwing her black-figured lace veil, worn by her mother before her, away from her face. "Well, now, Pastor, it is not appropriate for you to do this work, with your hands already overburdened. Neither should you bear the expense——"

"But I don't," cried Parson Henderson, guilty now of interrupting. "Mr. King pays me, and well, for teaching the little girl until she will be ready for the district school. You see, she has never been in a schoolroom in her life, and it would be cruel to put her with children of her own age, when she is so ignorant. But she is singularly bright, and I have the greatest hopes of her, madam, for she is far above and beyond most children in many ways."

But Miss Parrott hadn't come to hear all this, so she gave a stately bow.

"No doubt, Pastor, but I must say what is on my mind. It is that I have for some time wanted to do a bit of charity like this, and Providence now seems to point the way for it. I would like to take the child and do for her. Let her come to you here, for lessons, but let me bring her up in my house."

There was an awful pause. Parson Henderson looked at his wife, but said never a word, helplessly leaving it to her.

"Dear Miss Parrott," said Mrs. Henderson, and she so far forgot her fear of the stately, reserved parishioner as to lay her hand on the black-mitted one of the visitor, "we were given the care of the child by Mr. King, who rescued her from her terrible surroundings, and we couldn't possibly surrender this charge to another. But I will tell you what we might do, husband," and her eyes sought his face. "Rachel might go down now and then to spend the day with Miss Parrott. Oh, your beautiful house!" she broke off like a child in her enthusiasm. "I do so want her to be in it sometimes." She turned suddenly to the visitor.

Miss Parrott's old face glowed, and a smile lingered among the wrinkles.

"And she must pass the night occasionally," she said. There was a world of entreaty in her eyes. "I think so," said Mrs. Henderson, "but we must leave that to Rachel."

And Rachel, in the keeping-room closet, was trilling up and down some of the jigs her feet had kept time to when she, with the other tenement-house children, had run out to dance on the corner when the organ man came round, all unconscious of what was going on in the study.

"What's that?" cried Miss Parrott, starting. The conference was over and she was coming out of the pastor's study, to get into her ancestral carriage.

"That's Rachel singing," said Mrs. Henderson.

Old Miss Parrott gasped:

"Why, my dear Pastor, and Mrs. Henderson, can the child sing like that?"

"This is the first time she has tried it," said the parson, who had no ear for music and was sorely tried when expected to admire any specimens of it. "But I dare say she will do very well. She is a very teachable child."

"Very well!" repeated Miss Parrott quickly. "I should say so indeed. Well, I will send for the child on Saturday to pass the day and night with me, and then we shall see what we shall see."

With which enigmatical expression, she mounted her ancestral carriage; the solemn coachman, who had served considerably more than a generation in the family, gathered up the reins, and the coach rumbled off.

"Oh, what an awful old carriage!" exclaimed Rachel, running to the window. "It looks as if its bones would stick out."

"It hasn't got any bones," said Peletiah, viewing it with awe, "and she's awful rich, Miss Parrott is."

"I don't care," said Rachel, running back to her work and beginning to sing again, "her carriage is all bones, anyway."



XIV

"CAN'T GO," SAID JOEL

"Joel—where are you?" Frick Mason raced in, to encounter Polly in the wide hall. "Oh, dear me!"—not pausing for an answer—"all the boys are waiting for him outside. Please tell him to hurry, Polly," for Joel's friends always felt if they could only get Polly on their side, they were sure of success, and he shifted his feet in impatience.

"I don't know in the least where Joel is," said Polly, pausing in her run through the hall. She had promised Alexia to be over at her house at nine o'clock, and there it was, the big clock in the corner stated plainly, five minutes of that hour. "Oh, dear me! I wish I could help you," and she wrinkled up her brows in distress.

Frick sat down on one of the big, carved chairs and fairly whined:

"I've chased and chased all about here, and no one knows where Joel is. Polly, do find him for me," and he began to sniffle.

"Oh, I can't," began Polly impatiently, then she finished, "Dear me! Why, I don't know in the very least where Joel is, Frick!—not the leastest bit in the world."

"Oh, yes, you can find him," said Frick, sniffling dreadfully, and beginning to wheedle and beg. "Do, Polly." He seized her gown. "The boys can't do anything without Joel, and they've sent me for him."

"And I'm sure I can't do anything"—Polly shook her gown free—"so there's no use in asking me to stand here and talk about it, Frick Mason. And just look at that clock—two minutes of nine." She pointed tragically up to the big clock. "And I promised to be at Alexia's—" The last words came back to him as she disappeared out to the veranda and down the steps, racing off as hard as she could.

Frick got off from his chair, took three or four steps hopelessly, then stiffened up.

"I'm going to find him," he announced to himself, and turning down the angle, he knocked at the first door on the left.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Joel, unlocking the door and opening it.

"Oh, you're here." Frick seized him on both sides, wishing he had twice the number of hands to employ; then he tried to run in, but Joel shook off the grasp, pushed to the door, only leaving the scantiest space to allow of conversation.

"You can't come in," he said steadily.

"Hold on! don't shut the door," cried Frick, pressing up closely and still endeavoring to get a good grasp on some of Joel's clothing. "Ow! you 'most smashed my nose, Joel Pepper."

"You must take your nose away then," said Joel decidedly, "for I'm going to shut the door if you scrouge so."

"Well, let me come in," said Frick, struggling violently. "Say, Joel, don't shut the door."

For answer Joel slammed to the door, and the key clicked in the lock.

"I said I'd do it, if you scrouged and pushed, and I must," he answered, with the air of a man performing his duty. "This is my Grandpapa's writing-room, and you mustn't come in, Frick Mason."

Frick slid down to the floor and laid his mouth alongside the crack, with the feeling that his message would be more impressive delivered in that way, since he was not to be admitted to the apartment to give it in due form.

"The boys want you, Joel; they're all waiting for us outside. Hurry up." Having delivered it, Frick got up to his feet in a hurry, confident that the door would be flung wide, to let Joel come hopping out in delight, and not choosing to be run over in the process.

"Can't go," said Joel, in muffled accents, on the other side of the door.

"What?" roared Frick, not believing his ears.

"Can't go," repeated Joel. "Go right away from this door."

"What did you say?" Frick slid to the floor again and beat his hands on the polished surface. "Say, Joel, we want you to come. We're all waiting for you, don't you understand?" He kept saying it over and over, under the impression that if he only repeated it enough, the door would open.

"And I say I can't go," declared Joel, in a high, wrathful key. "If you don't go away and let this door alone, I'll come out and pound you."

"We're going to the pond," said Frick, exactly as if responding to the most cordial request to furnish the plan. "We've got Larry's boat, and Webb is going to take his father's, and——"

"Ow—go away!" roared Joel, in an awful voice.

"And we're going to take our luncheon and stop at Egg Rock, and——"

The door flew open wildly, and Joel leaped out over Frick, flattened on the floor.

"Didn't I tell you to let me alone?" cried Joel, on top of the messenger, and pommeling away briskly, "Say, didn't I tell? Say, didn't I tell you?"

The noise all this made was sufficient to bring Jane, who didn't stop to drop her broom.

"My goodness me, Master Joel!" she said, running down from the stair-landing, "what are you doing?"

"Pommeling him," said Joel cheerfully, and not looking up.

"Well, you stop it this minute," commanded Jane, waving her broom over the two figures, for by this time Frick had managed to roll over and was now putting up quite a vigorous little fight in his own defense.

"I can't," said Joel; "I promised him."

"Oh, dear me!" cried Jane, bringing her broom down smartly on as much of the surface of either boy as was possible. "I'll scream for Mrs. Fisher if you don't stop, you two boys. I will, as true as anything!"

"Oh, no, you mustn't, Jane," said Joel. His brown fists wavered in the air and described several circles before they fell at his side; seeing which, Frick slipped out from underneath him and began to belabor Joel to his heart's content. "You mustn't, Jane," howled Joel.

"Now will you come." he cried. "Say, hurry up, Joe, we're all waiting. Come on!" His nose was quite bloody, and a dab here and there on his countenance gave him anything but a pleasing expression.

"Ugh!" cried Jane, with a little shiver. "You boys get right straight up from this floor, or I'll tell Mrs. Fisher."

Joel seized her apron string and howled:

"Jane, don't!"

"Yes, I will, too, Master Joel," declared Jane, twitching away the string; "for such carryings on, I never see. Oh, here's Mr. King; now he'll take care of you both," and she skipped upstairs, broom and all.

It was useless to try to slip away unperceived, for old Mr. King bore down upon them along the hall in his stateliest fashion.

"Dear me! what have we here?" as both boys slunk down as small as possible. "Why, Joel!"—it was impossible to convey greater astonishment in his tone—"I thought you were steady at work."

"So I was," cried Joel, stung to the quick; and jumping to his feet, he fairly beat the old gentleman's arm with two distressed little palms, "and he made me come out. I said I would pound him, and I had to. Oh, Grandpapa, I had to," and he pranced wildly around the tall, stately figure.

"Keep quiet, Joe," said the old gentleman, with a restraining hand; "and, Frick, get up. Oh, dear me!"—as Frick obeyed, bringing his interesting countenance to view, by no means improved by his efforts to wipe off the smears. "What have you boys been about?"

"He wouldn't come out," said Frick, rubbing violently all over his round cheeks, "and the boys sent me for him, and they're waiting now," he finished, with a very injured air.

"Eh—oh! and so they sent you for Joel?" said the old gentleman, a light breaking over his face.

"Yes, sir," said Frick, with a final polish to his countenance on the cuff of his jacket sleeve, "and won't you please make Joel hurry up and come out, sir? We've waited so long."

"And is that the way you respond to your invitations, my boy?" said Grandpapa, with a grim smile. "I shouldn't think you'd receive many at this rate. So you fell upon him because he asked you to go somewhere, eh?"—with a keen glance into the black eyes.

"No, sir." said Joel, "but he wouldn't go away, and I told him if he didn't, I'd come out and pound him. So I had to."

"Um—now let us see," said the old gentleman, reflecting a bit. "So you kept on at the door, eh, Frick?"

"Yes, sir," said Frick, giving up his countenance as a bad job. "I had to, 'cause the boys are waiting, you see, sir. Won't you please make Joe hurry up and come?"

"Well, now, Frick, I really believe you better go out and tell those boys that when Joel gets ready to join them, he'll make his appearance. Good-bye, Frick." Grandpapa waved him off sociably, and Frick, not exactly understanding how, or why, found himself on the other side of the big front door, in the midst of the waiting company from which he had been picked out as messenger.

"I wouldn't make such a promise again, if I were you, Joel," observed old Mr. King, gathering up the small, brown hand in one of his own; "it might be a little awkward to keep it, you know. Now, then, here we are,"—turning in at the writing-room. "Well, say no more, but fly at your task," and he seated himself in the big chair before the writing-table and took up his pen.

Thus left to himself, Joel went slowly over to the set of shelves in the alcove, from which Frick's summons at the door had called him. There were several volumes on the floor, and a blank book and some sheets of paper, showing clearly Joe's favorite method of setting to work on making lists, while sprawled on the carpet with all his paraphernalia around him. He threw himself down amongst it all, prowled around for his pencil, which, suddenly dropped when he had deserted his task, had taken the opportunity to roll off by itself. Now it added to his discomfiture by hiding.

"Plague take it!" He scowled, a black little frown settling on his brow. "Where is it?"—prowling around frantically on the carpet, with hasty hands.

"What is it, Joe?" Old Mr. King, though apparently very busy over at the writing-table, seemed to be quite well aware of everything that went on in the alcove.

"I've lost my pencil," announced Joe, in a dismal voice.

"Oh, well, that's not so bad as it might be," said the old gentleman; "come over and get another, and by and by you can find your own."

Joel advanced to the writing-table and put out a hand for the pencil, which the old gentleman laid within it, but not before he had taken a good look at the chubby face above it.

"So Frick and the boys wanted you, eh?" asked Grandpapa carelessly. "Going somewhere, maybe?"

"Yes," said Joel, not looking up, "they are going to the pond."

"Oh, really?" said old Mr. King. "And you said no, eh, Joel?"

"Yes," said Joel.

"I suppose you didn't want to go, eh, Joel?" said the old gentleman carelessly, and playing with his paper knife.

Joel's black eyes flew wide open, and he raised his head to stare into Grandpapa's face.

"Oh, yes, I did, awfully."

"Then why didn't you go?" asked Grandpapa, just as carelessly, and giving the paper knife an extra twirl or two.

Joel took his gaze off, to regard the pile of books over on the alcove floor.

"Oh, your work?—is that it, Joel?" asked the old gentleman. "So you thought you'd rather stay and finish your hour on it, eh, my boy?"

Joel squirmed uneasily. "I hadn't rather," he said at last, "but I'd got to."

"Eh?" said old Mr. King.

"I said I'd work an hour and not stop," said Joel, as something seemed to be required of him, the old gentleman waiting for him to finish.

"You mean you'd made the bargain to do this work and you couldn't back out?" said Grandpapa.

Joel looked up and nodded quickly.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, yes. Well, now, I mustn't hinder you from your work"—old Mr. King turned briskly to his writing again—"or I shall be as bad as Frick—eh, Joel?" and he laughed gayly. "Now trot back and go at your task again."

So Joel, fortified with his pencil, marched back to sit on the floor in the alcove and take up his interrupted work, and Grandpapa's pen went scratching busily over the paper, and nothing else was heard except the buzzing of a big fly outside the window, venting his vexation at his inability to get in.

Meanwhile Frick and the knot of boys had drawn off in astonishment and dismay at the failure of their plan to get Joel Pepper into the delightful expedition.

"What was he doing?" demanded more than one boy.

"I don't know," said Frick; "I couldn't get in."

"Oh, now I know; he's got some secret," said Larry Keep, and he whirled around in vexation and snapped his fingers.

"Maybe it's a flying-machine," suggested another boy.

"Phoo! he couldn't make that in his grandfather's writing-room," said Larry, in derision, yet he looked anxious. Suppose Joel Pepper were really busy over such a splendid thing as that and hadn't told him. "Guess something else."

"I can't think what it is," said Frick, sitting down on the curbstone to become lost in thought—an example to be speedily followed by all the boys, till finally there was a dismal row of them, without a thought remaining of having the expedition on the pond, since Joel Pepper wouldn't come with them.



XV

UP IN ALEXIA'S PRETTY ROOM

Polly was having a bad half-hour with herself, despite all the attractions up in Alexia's pretty room.

"It's no use," she cried, throwing down the little brush with which she was whisking off the dainty bureau-cover. The girls were "setting up" the various adornments that were plentifully strewn about, an occupation that Polly dearly loved, and that Alexia as dearly hated. "I must go home."

Alexia, down on her knees, with her head in the closet, grumbling over the shoe bag, whose contents were in a chronic state of overflow, pulled it out suddenly.

"Why, Polly Pepper!" she exclaimed, in an injured tone. One eye was draped by a cobweb, gained by diving into the closet's extreme corner after a missing slipper, gone for some weeks; and in other ways Alexia's face presented a very unprepossessing appearance. "You said you'd help me with my room this morning."

"Oh, yes, I know," said Polly hurriedly, and running over to Alexia; "but you'll let me off, won't you?—for I've something on my mind. Oh, dear me!"

Alexia hopped up to her feet, the slipper flying off at a tangent, and ran all around Polly Pepper, gazing at her anxiously.

"I don't see anything. Oh, what is it?" she cried.

"You see, the boys wanted to find Joel, and I—" began Polly, twisting her fingers.

"Bother the boys!" exclaimed Alexia, interrupting. "Is that all? They are everlastingly wanting to find Joel. Well"—with a sigh of relief—"we can go back to work again. Why, I must say, Polly, you scared me 'most to death. Oh, dear me! I wish I had let Norah sweep this old closet when she does the room. It's dirty as can be. If Aunt knew it—" The rest of it was lost, as Alexia was down on her knees again, her head back in the closet, with the hope of unearthing more slippers and shoes.

"Alexia, do come out," cried Polly, pulling her gown smartly; "I must speak to you."

"Can't," said Alexia, rummaging away. "There, I've gone and knocked down my blue silk waist! Do pick it up, Polly; it 'll get all dirt, and then won't Aunt scold!"

As if to make matters worse, a voice out in the hall was heard:

"Alexia?"

"Misery me!" cried Alexia, scuffling out backward from the closet, the blue silk waist on her head where it had fallen, and in her sudden exit nearly overthrowing Polly Pepper. "Here comes Aunt. Shut the door, Polly—shut it"—scrambling with both hands to get the waist off, while a hook caught in her light, fluffy hair. And Miss Rhys being too near the door for any such protection as Alexia suggested, in she walked.

"What in the world!" She lifted both hands. "Alexia Rhys, is it possible! I concluded not to go down-town, and came back, and to think of this—playing with your best silk waist!"

"I'm not playing," declared Alexia, in a sharp key, tossing back from her head as much of the waist as she could, "and it hurts awfully"—twitching angrily at the hook.

Polly sprang to her assistance.

"Wait a minute, and I'll get you out," she said.

"And I won't wait," cried Alexia loudly; "it's bad enough to be hooked to death with a horrid old ugly waist, without being scolded to pieces by your aunt."

"Oh, Alexia!" exclaimed Miss Rhys, "to call that beautiful waist an ugly thing!"

"And I'll pull every spear of hair out of my head, but I'll get the thing off. Ow!"—as she began to put her threat into execution.

"Do be still, Alexia," begged Polly, trying to push aside the nervous fingers.

"I won't be still," cried Alexia, casting up a pale eye full of wrath on the side next to Polly, and giving another twitch. "I guess if you'd been hooked up by a horrible old thing, and your aunt came in and scolded you terribly, you wouldn't wait. Ow! Oh, dear me!"

"Then," said Polly, standing quite still, "since you won't let me help you, I'm going home, Alexia."

"Oh, don't," cried Alexia, and she dropped her hands to her side in a flash, the blue silk waist dangling to her head by its hook. "I'll let you help whatever you want to, Polly," she mumbled meekly.

So Polly set to work, Miss Rhys slipping out of the room. Although Alexia's nervous fingers were now not in the way, still, it wasn't easy to disentangle the hook from the thick, fluffy hair, wound in as it was.

"You've tangled it all up," said Polly, bending over it with flushed face, her fingers working busily, "and it's all in a snarl. Dear me! do I hurt?"

"No, never mind," said Alexia; "'tisn't any matter. Don't go home, Polly." She held her fast by the gown.

"No, of course not," said Polly; "at least not until I get this hook out of your hair. There—oh, dear me! I thought it was quite free. Well, anyway, now it is!" She held up the blue silk waist with a triumphant little flourish, over her own head. "It must be awful to have something fastened to you like that," she said, sympathetically, as she placed the waist on the bed with a sigh of relief.

"Well, I guess you'd think so," assented Alexia decidedly; "it's too perfectly awful for anything. It pulls like a big vulture with his talons holding your hair." She hopped to her feet and shook herself in delight, her long, light braids flying out gayly. "Well, I am glad that Aunt has gone"—looking around the room, and drawing a long breath.

Polly Pepper stood quite still over by the bed.

"Well—heigh-ho—come on," cried Alexia, dancing over to seize her arm; "let's have a spin." But Polly didn't move.

"Come on, Polly," cried Alexia, with another tug at her arm.

"No," said Polly, "I can't, Alexia."

"What in the world is the matter?" cried Alexia, dropping her arm to stare at her.

"I think your aunt—" began Polly.

"Oh, Aunt!" interrupted Alexia impatiently. "You're always talking about her, Polly Pepper, and she's everlastingly picking at me, so I have a perfectly dreadful time, between you two."

"Well, she is your aunt," said Polly, not offering to stir.

"I can't help it." Alexia, for the want of something better to do, ran over and twitched the table cover straight. "And I know she's my aunt, but she needn't pick at me all the time," she added defiantly. She looked uncomfortable all the same, and ran about here and there trying to get things in their places, but knocking down more than were tidied up. "Why don't you say something?" she cried impatiently, whirling around.

"Because I've nothing to say," replied Polly, not moving.

"Oh, dear me!" Alexia sent her long arms out with a despairing gesture. "I suppose I've just got to go and tell Aunt I'm sorry." She drew a long breath. "But I hadn't been playing; I was tired to death over that dirty old closet and that tiresome shoe bag, and my hair all hooked up. Well, do come on." She ran over and held out her hand. "Come with me," she begged.

So Polly put her hand in Alexia's, and together they ran out into the hall, to the maiden aunt's room.

"It's perfectly dreadful to board," said Alexia, on the way. "I wouldn't care how little the house was, if Aunt and I could only have one," and she gave a great sigh.

Polly turned suddenly and gave her a big hug.

"Mamsie says you are to come over to our house just as often as possible. So does Grandpapa," she cried hastily; "you know that, Alexia."

"Yes, I know," said Alexia, but she was highly gratified at every repetition of the invitation. "Well, oh, dear me!"—as they stood before Miss Rhys' door.

That lady sat in her bay window, her fingers busy with her embroidery, and her mind completely filled with plans for another piece when that particular one should be completed.

"I'm sorry, Aunt," said Alexia, plunging up to the chair and keeping tight hold of Polly Pepper's hand.

"Oh!" said Miss Rhys, looking up. "Why, how your hair does look, Alexia!"

Up flew Alexia's other hand to her head.

"Well, it's been all hooked up," she said.

"And I'll brush it for you," said Polly, at her shoulder.

"That'll be fine," cried Alexia, with a comfortable wriggle of her long figure. "Oh, I'm sorry, Aunt."

"Very well," said Miss Rhys, turning back to her embroidery again. "And, Alexia, your room looks very badly. I'm astonished that you are so untidy, when I talk to you about it so much."

"Well, Polly is helping me fix it up," said Alexia, drawing off and pulling Polly along.

"Now, you see, Polly"—as the two girls were safe once more in the little room, this time with the door shut—"I only got some more pickings by going to Aunt."

"Hush," said Polly, "she will hear you.'

"How is she going to hear with the door shut, pray tell?" cried Alexia, with a giggle. "Well, it's over with now. Let's fly at this horrid old room. Dear me!"—as she ran by the window—"do just see those dreadful boys."

At the word "boys" Polly ran too, and peeped over her shoulder.

"Oh, I must speak to Frick," and without more warning, she raced out of the room, and down the front stairs.

"Polly, Polly Pepper!" But Polly being out in the street and nearly up to the knot of boys, Alexia gave up calling and speedily ran after her, to hear her say:

"Oh, Frick, I'll go and try to find Joel for you."

Frick disentangled himself from the group.

"I found Joel myself," he said, "and he wouldn't come."

"Wouldn't come where?" demanded Alexia breathlessly, plunging up.

"Out on the pond." It was Larry Keep who answered.

"And so we've given it all up," said another boy, very dismally.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Alexia, "how tiresome of Joel!"

"Oh, no, no," protested Polly, shaking her head. "I know Joel couldn't go, or else he would. You know that, boys," she said, looking anxiously at them all.

"He's always been before," said Larry, in a dudgeon, "and I don't see what makes him act so now."

"Well, you haven't any right to abuse him, just because he doesn't want to go out with you on the pond," said Alexia warmly, veering round at the first word of blame of Joel from anybody else. "That's a great way to do, I must say."

"And, boys, you know Joel would have gone if he could, don't you?" said Polly again, the little anxious pucker deepening on her forehead.

"Ye—es," said Larry slowly, digging the toe of his tennis shoe into the ground, as no one else said anything.

"Oh, he would, he would," said Polly, clasping her hands tightly together, the color flying over her cheek. "Something must have happened to keep him back"—as the boys, having nothing more to say, moved off. "Alexia, now I must go home, for I'm afraid—" of what, she didn't say.

"I'll go, too," said Alexia, springing after her, wild to find out what the matter could be with Joel Pepper, to keep him from one of his favorite sports on the pond.

"There isn't anything the matter with him," shouted back Frick, over his shoulder, who had caught Polly's last words. "And he could have gone as easy as not; he was in Mr. King's writing-room with the door locked."

"Grandpapa's writing-room, with the door locked!" repeated Polly, turning around in a puzzled way. "Why—I don't see—oh!" Then she gave such a squeal that Alexia hopped across the road in astonishment. "I know now. Dear, splendid, old Joel! Boys!" She was up by them again, and talking so fast that nobody understood for a moment or two what the whole thing was about.

"For pity's sake, Polly Pepper!" Alexia was shaking her arm, the boys crowding around Polly and hanging on every word.

"Don't you understand? Oh, how stupid I've been not to think of it before!—though I didn't know he was to begin this very morning," cried Polly, hurrying on, all in a glow. "Grandpapa has engaged Joel to do some work for him on his books"—Polly didn't think she ought to explain any further about the ten-dollar note—"and so Joel thought he couldn't stop till the hour was up, and——"

"Has he got to work an hour on 'em at a time?" interrupted Larry in amazement, pushing his way nearer to Polly.

"Yes," said Polly, turning her rosy face on him, so glad that she was really making them see that Joel couldn't go with them when he was asked, "he must work a whole hour at a time on them, so you see he really had to stay back." But this part was lost on the whole group.

"Hi—hi!" they shouted, and Larry flung up his cap. "Well, if that's so, we'll go back and get him now; the hour must be up," and off they raced, flinging up a cloud of dust from their heels.

"Whew!" exclaimed Alexia. "Did you ever see such perfectly dreadful boys to kick up such a dust? Oh, dear me, Polly Pepper. Ker-choo!"

When she came out of her sneezing fit, Polly was saying again:

"Oh, how perfectly stupid I am, Alexia!"

But her eyes shone, for it was now all right for Joel with the boys.



XVI

THE ACCIDENT

But the boys didn't get back after Joel—not just then. A big tallyho coach, in swinging around a corner, bore down upon the struggling crowd, the driver halloing and the horn blowing lustily, by way of a signal to clear the road. This would have been all well enough and easy to avoid, if a string of bicyclists had not selected that very identical moment to appear from the opposite direction. And Larry, whose uncle was in the last-mentioned procession, having a laudable desire to see him and make his relation aware of the fact, turned, waved his cap and his arms with a, "Hi, there, Uncle Jack!" and in another second was under the big wheels, the whole merry party going over him and the laughter and chat still filling the air.

Miss Mary Taylor, having an outside seat, looked over quickly. Hamilton Dyce, sitting next, clambered down.

"Don't be frightened," he said into her pale face.

Half a dozen men were on the ground with him, and the boys swarmed around wildly, getting in everybody's way. The bicyclists, not catching the idea of any accident, were swiftly coasting down the hill, for after all their leader had suddenly changed his mind and veered off just before reaching the scene of the accident.

"Help me down," said Miss Taylor hoarsely.

"Ugh, don't!" said Beth Cameron, with a shiver, poking her parasol well down over her eyes. "I wouldn't see it for all the world"—shivering.

"You can't do any good; better not," said Mr. Dyce, looking up at Miss Taylor.

But Miss Mary continued to say, "Help me down," and she so evidently displayed the intention of getting down without any assistance if it weren't forthcoming, that Mr. Dyce did as he was bidden, and she was on the spot by the time that Larry was drawn out from under the wheels and laid on the roadside grass.

"I'm afraid he's done for, poor beggar," said one of the men.

Mr. Dyce turned Miss Mary completely around and marched her off to the middle of the road before she knew that such summary treatment was to be accorded her. Then she caught her breath.

"You needn't think to save me," she said, with a little gasp: "I'm—I'm quite strong. I must go. Oh, don't stop me. Think of poor Mrs. Keep!" and she was back in among the group of men and the frantic boys. "Send for Doctor Fisher," she cried, kneeling down by Larry's side.

"No use—" began another man, but Hamilton Dyce cried, "Which one can run the fastest for Doctor Fisher?"

Little Porter Knapp could, there was no doubt of that. All arms and legs was he, and able to get over more ground a minute than any other boy of their set, not excepting Joel Pepper. So, before Mr. Dyce had finished speaking, he was off like a shot, leaving Miss Taylor sitting on the grass holding Larry's poor head, while the whole crowd of men revolved around her, nervous to do something, but not seeing their way clear to find out what would be expedient.

"If those chaps would stop howling!" exclaimed one of the men, in desperation, stalking off a bit to cram his hands in his pocket, and ejaculate this to a companion.

"It's pretty hard on the kids," remarked the friend, with a glance over his shoulder at Frick and the rest of the boys, who added to the misery by crowding up to the scene and impeding the progress of all would-be helpers.

"He's dead, it's easy to see," observed the first man, nodding over to the group.

"That's a fact, it looks like it," nodded the friend. "Well, it's a bad thing, but no one's at fault. Mac couldn't help it. The little beggar ran right under the horses."

"Oh, Mac's not to blame," said the first speaker hastily, "but it's an awful calamity just the same, to run down a kid. Well, we must pacify the ladies." So the two walked back and up to the side of the coach, when the big hats under the parasols leaned over and allowed their fair owners to be diverted with all sorts of comforting things. And presently little Doctor Fisher came rushing along in his gig, out of which sprang Porter Knapp before the horse could be persuaded to stop.



No one said a word, least of all Miss Taylor, except the Doctor, who ordered them to right and to left, as assistants. And before long, Larry opened his blue eyes.

"Why—where?" he began. He didn't even know he had been hurt—not till afterward when the pain and suffering set in.

"Easy—easy there," said little Doctor Fisher.

"Great Scott!" The young man who had pronounced him dead crammed those hands of his deeper yet in their pockets and gave a whistle.

"Oh, Larry," said Miss Taylor gently, bending over him.

"What is it?" Larry tried to move, and felt a strong hand laid on him just where it made any motion impossible. Beside, a great wave of pain swept him suddenly into such astonishment as well as suffering that all he could do was to shut his eyes and let his head sink back.

"Now, then!" Doctor Fisher glanced up to the coach-load. "All of you get down," he said curtly, and before the women quite knew how, the pretty gowns and hats and parasols were all descending, a gay, fluttering bevy all chattering together.

"Miss Mary, I'll trouble you to hop up there," and a dozen hands helped her into position on the coach. "Now, then, Mr. Dyce, and you"; he nodded over to Harry Delafield, the little doctor did, then rapidly picked out two more men. "Up with you, please," and quicker than it takes to tell it all, they were in position, and Larry had been lifted gently into their laps, his head on Miss Taylor's arm.

"Ugh!" Betty Cameron gave a worse shiver than before. "How Mary Taylor can!" she exclaimed, with a grimace. "Oh, dear me! I'm as faint as I can be, just to think of it. I should die outright to be up there with him."

"Well, we've got to walk home, I suppose," observed one of the other girls disconsolately, who, now that Larry could really speak, thought it quite time to turn attention to her own discomfort, and she thrust out her dainty shoe.

The boys, when they saw that Larry was really alive, stopped howling, especially as each and all had felt the glare of the eyes back of Doctor Fisher's big spectacles. And they set off on a run by the side of the coach, and as far ahead of that vehicle as possible, as Mac handled the ribbons with his best style, trying to drive as gently as possible for the patient.

"To his home, of course," said the little doctor, turning his spectacles up to Mac. Then he got into his gig, whipped up, and took the lead.

Porter Knapp went across streets and got there first and was leaning over the stone gateway when the little doctor's gig drove up.

"Eh!" exclaimed Doctor Fisher, looking at him over his glasses. "Well, you have a pair of legs! Joel was right; he says you beat everything in running."

Porter looked much pleased and glanced down at his legs affectionately. Then he remembered Larry and sobered at once.

Doctor Fisher, while going up the steps, said in passing:

"Larry'll pull through all right, I think."

"She's here," cried Porter suddenly. He had heard the words, but something had abruptly come in between, and he wildly dashed at the little doctor. Doctor Fisher turned around and saw, flourishing up to the gateway, a gay little runabout, and in it Larry's mother and sister.

"My goodness!" He was down by its side. And off in the distance, but coming surely and steadily on, was the coach bearing Larry to his home.

"Yes, yes, how do you do? Don't stop," cried the little doctor, waving his hand that was free from his bag of instruments; "go on to the stable."

"Oh, no, I'll stop here." Mrs. Keep had her foot on the step, and put out the hand not occupied with her flowing draperies. "Eleanor is going on to see a friend. Well, how do you do?"

"You had better drive on to the stable," said the little doctor, "both of you."

This time he had such an imperative manner that, thoroughly bewildered, Mrs. Keep stepped back into her seat and motioned Eleanor to obey.

"Isn't he awfully funny!" said Eleanor, turning in at the driveway, more puzzled, if possible, than her mother.

"Yes," said Mrs. Keep, "he is, but then I suppose he has a good deal on his mind. You know they say his practice is getting to be tremendous. Well, we must run in and see him," as they drove down to the stable. "And you can go afterward to see Mary Taylor."



"All right," said Eleanor, and one of the stable boys coming out to meet the pony, they both jumped out of the runabout and ran up the back veranda steps.

"It's funny he didn't come down this way, if he wanted us to drive to the stable," cried Eleanor. "Mamma, do say you think it's queer. It would be some comfort if you would."

"Well, I will, then," laughed Mrs. Keep, and there stood Doctor Fisher at the dining-room door, and the minute she saw his face she knew that something dreadful had happened.

"Well, Joel, my boy." Old Mr. King, who had been consulting his watch every five minutes, whirled around in his big chair. "Time to lay down the work," he called cheerily.

"Yes, sir," called Joel back, from the alcove.

"And I'm sure if ever an hour was long, this last one has been," the old gentleman was saying to himself. Joel, who was rather stiff in the joints when first getting up from his work on the carpet, now came out feeling his arms, and then indulging in a good long stretch.

"It seems rather good—eh, Joe?—to swing your arms," cried Grandpapa with a laugh, and a keen glance into the black eyes.

"Yes, sir," declared Joel, with another stretch, and wondering if ever anything was so good in this world as to be told the hour was up.

"Take care," warned the old gentleman; "those long arms of yours will have things off from my table. My goodness, Joe! you must really go out of doors and stretch, you make such a sweep," and he laughed again.

"I can reach so far." Joel ran all around the table and stretched out his brown arms. "See, Grandpapa," he cried; then he got on his tiptoes and leaned over to achieve greater and more astonishing results.

"You'll be over on your nose, if I don't rescue you and the things on my table," said Mr. King, bursting into a heartier laugh than ever. "Come on, Joey, my boy, let's get out of doors, in a larger place." So he gathered up one of the sprawling sets of fingers, and summarily marched him out.

"Now I suppose the next thing in order is to race after Frick and those boys," observed old Mr. King, when the garden walk was attained.

"Yes, sir," cried Joel, his black eyes alight and his feet dancing.

"Well, be off with you."

No need to say more; Joel's heels beat the hastiest of retreats, as he scuttled off at the liveliest pace of which he was capable.

Old Mr. King, left alone, nodded to himself two or three times, and smiled in a pleased way. "The very thing," he said at last, and in as great satisfaction as if he had been talking to a good listener.



XVII

JOEL'S ADVENTURE

Joel rushed along at a breakneck pace to make up for lost time. How good it was to sniff the fresh air, and to be free, and then to think of that hour put into solid work over the book-list! Why, he glowed all over with delight at the very thought.

"Whoopity-la!" Down the bank of Spy Pond into one of the curves most frequented by the boys of his set, he ran. "My! but I'm glad to get here, though! Hey, there?"

There was no response as Joel dashed into what the boys called their camp, a rough enclosure the wealthy men who owned the pond on the outskirts of the town had allowed to be built. As some of the boys were their own sons, every indulgence in the way of using the pond had been granted, and Mr. Horatio King being the largest owner and the most indulgent, Joel's set, to a boy, decided to call it the "King Camp." It was in a knot of pines, and in the summer was a most attractive place, overrun with vines and creepers and gay with the colored boat-cushions that were always thrown about.

"Hey there!" shouted Joel again, running about within and without the little wooden structure. "Are you all deaf? Hey—whoopity-la!" but nobody answered, save a little bird from the tip of the tallest tree.

Joel stood transfixed with amazement; then he dashed off suddenly down a descent to the little cove. "It must be that they are out on the pond," he said to himself, in vexation, and he craned his neck and peered up and down the shining water as well as he was able for the many curves. "But I don't see how they can be, for Larry's boat is here"—he had dashed up again to the camp—"and Mr. Hersey's, that's the one they would take"—surveying the collection of rowboats and dories drawn up on the beach—"and Webb's father's and Porter Knapp's." Besides, there was a goodly number of others, all in such situations as by no means suggested a party expected to be on the pond at short notice that morning.

"Well, I'm going out, anyway," declared Joel, snapping his fingers, "and catch up with them. Most likely they've taken the fishing-tackle; I won't stop for that." So, pushing off his row-boat, he picked up the oars and headed down the pond in the direction most likely in his mind to overtake them.

But although he pulled lustily at his oars and ran his boat in and out the curves and hallooed and shouted, he didn't catch a glimpse of them; and the pine groves and wooded glens that ran down to the curving bank only echoed his own calls, or sent a bird note out to him. There wasn't the first suggestion of a boy anywhere about.

"Where in the world are they?" cried Joel in vexation, resting on his oars. "Hi—there they are!" He turned suddenly, knocked against one of the oars, it slipped, and before he knew what it was about, there it was in the water. And to make matters worse, the sound that had filled him with delight proved to be a big, black dog, scrambling through a thicket of underbrush, and coming out to stare at him from the edge of the pond.

"Oh, you beggar!" exclaimed Joel, not to the dog, but to the oar drifting off quickly. It was an easy thing, however, so he thought, to recover it, and he made no special haste to paddle along as best he might after it. Just at this moment another boat came suddenly in sight around a curve. It didn't hold Joel's friends, but a wholly different set, some city boys who had no rights on the pond. And having stolen their opportunity, and helped themselves to a boat down below, they meant to have as good a time as possible, knowing it would probably be their last. So here was a grand chance, a boy alone in a rowboat, and at their mercy, one of his oars drifting off.

"Hi—fellows!" When they saw it, they yelled with glee.

The black dog on the bank, who belonged to them and was following, as best he might, their course, danced about and gnashed his teeth in his rage that he couldn't join actively in the excitement, sniffing at the water and drawing back as it lapped his feet.

"Now then, look alive," cried the one who appeared to be the leader, and the whole crew bent to their oars with a right good will; and grinning all over their faces with the prospect of fun ahead, they made straight for Joel in his boat.

Joel drew himself up, his black eyes flashing, and paddled with all his might. But it was no use; his boat went round and round, or zigzagged along, and in a trice the unlucky oar was seized by the triumphant crew, as it was drifting off into some lily pads, and drawn with a worse yell than ever into their boat. Good luck! here would be easy game!

"Now then!" There was no limit to their delight as they saluted Joel in every conceivable way best fitted to get him worked up. "How are you, snob? Don't you want your oar?" and such things, every boy contributing at least a few selections to the general hubbub, the black dog on the bank emitting shrill, ear-splitting barks of distress.

"Give me back my oar," roared Joel, sitting very straight and unconsciously rolling up his sleeves.

"Hi there! Come on and fight, if you want to," cried several of the crew, with sneers and catcalls, and they brandished the oar at him over their heads, yelling, "Why don't you come on and fight?"



"If you don't give me back my oar," cried Joel angrily, and paddling for dear life toward them, "it 'll be worse for you, I can tell you. My Grandpapa——"

He was drowned in a storm of yells: "Your granddaddy? Fellows, this baby is talking of his granddaddy," and they screamed in derision, snapping their fingers and swinging the oar as high as they could tantalizingly at him.

Round and round went Joel's boat, describing a series of curves, that despite all his efforts only carried him away from his tormentors. What he would have done, had he reached them, hadn't entered his head, his only thought being to get up to them. In the midst of this interesting proceeding, a sharp clap of thunder reverberated over their heads, to be almost immediately followed by a piercing gleam of lightning. It produced the greatest consternation in the boat-load, and a sudden jump on the part of nearly every boy in it, made it careen, then turn completely over, and before they were fully aware, every single one was in the water, screaming and struggling wildly.

In the upset Joel's oar had been carried out, too; and as it happened to drift toward him, he leaned over the side of his boat, managing to reach it with the other one.

"Don't catch hold of each other," he yelled, his mind intent on helping some of them into his boat. But as well talk to the wind. The boys who couldn't swim—and most of them were in that plight—were grabbing this way and that, to seize upon anything that would give them a support.

"Catch hold of your boat," roared Joel at them. But instead of that, some of them preferred to catch hold of his, the consequence being that it would soon have been upset, had he not screamed at them (and they knew he meant it), "I'll bang you across the head if you try it"—lifting his oar sturdily.

"You fellows who can swim, hold up the others, and I'll take you all off to the bank, if you won't crowd."

And seeing that this was all they could get, and that Joel was as good as his word, one after another was helped in, the others wisely catching hold of the overturned boat—an example speedily followed, till all were either in Joel's boat and rowing quickly off to shore, or hanging to their own craft.

The leader of the crew huddled sheepishly down over his oar, which Joel handed him to do some of the rowing, and he didn't look at the owner of the boat, till, just as they neared the bank, he glanced up suddenly and said:

"Say, you, I s'pose you'll tell on us."

"What do you take me for?" cried Joel, in extreme disgust, and plying his oar briskly. All this time the rain had come down in torrents, till there wasn't much difference between the boys who had been in the water and the one who had kept out, and the lightning played over their heads in unpleasant zigzag streaks, and the thunder rolled and rumbled.

The leader shivered and ducked till he couldn't by any possibility be said to look at Joel.

"Well, I would if I was you." The words came in a burst from a boy supposed to be in such a half-drowned condition that he wouldn't care to take part in any conversation, who was crouched down in the bottom of the boat. "I'd tell every single thing about it." He raised himself and shook his fist at the leader's very face. "If it hadn't been for you, Mike," he said, "we wouldn't have come."

"Don't fight," said Joel, in consternation at any such settling of their differences in his boat; "you'll upset us all."

"Humph!" the boy in the bottom of the boat sneered. "He won't fight, Mike won't," he said.

And really Mike didn't look as if he would, for he crouched and cowered lower yet, till Joel began to say, "Give me the oar," for it wabbled so that it played a small part only in getting the craft to the shore.

"Some other fellow take it," said the boy who had done all the talking. "I would"—he lifted a red and ashamed face—"only my arm——"

"Is it hurt?" asked Joel, rescuing the other oar from Mike, whose nerves seemed to have all gone to pieces.

"D'no; never mind," said the other boy, looking more ashamed still. "Here, Jimmy, you take the oar, and row lively now." So, with Jimmy's help, the boat ran up to the bank.

"There you are," cried Joel, as they were dumped out, to keep company with the big, black dog, who sniffed them contemptuously and walked around their dripping bodies as they sank on the bank. This wasn't the kind of fun he had meant when he followed his master out, and not at all to his taste.