Now indeed the stoutest heart turned weak.

"Good Heavens, boys!" said Miss Brown to the two or three older pupils, "what can we do?"

"I don't see as we can do anything except keep him out of here till men come to look for us," said the oldest boy, who was about fourteen, and used to the ways of the country.

"And that won't be," said Miss Brown, "till they are alarmed because we don't get home."

"Yes," said the boy; "not before five or six o'clock. We're often that late getting home."

This was a dreary prospect, indeed, and wails and cries began again to fill the room. Miss Brown saw that she must rouse herself and quell the panic before it got beyond bounds.

She thought quickly, then said, quietly as she could, though her voice trembled at first:—

"Children, shall I tell you a story?"

Story is a magic word to a child, and in a moment the smaller ones were camped down on the floor around her—having no benches to sit on—while Miss Brown racked her brain to think of stirring incidents to keep them interested.

Story after story fell from her lips; lunch time came—but there were no lunches. Miss Brown struggled on; words came slowly,—her lips and throat were dry,—she sipped a little water and struggled on.

All sorts of possible and impossible adventures she related; she told strange facts of history with the wildest fancies of romance-makers; fairies and pirates, and queens and beggar girls, in one mad medley. She never in after years could recall anything that passed her lips in those terrible hours.

Some of the smaller children, worn out with crying, fell asleep, and as the hours passed and twilight stole over the world, hope began to revive; surely the fathers of the village must come to seek their children.

The bear still slept, but they dared not make much noise for fear of arousing him. Twilight deepened and night came on,—still no rescue.

Men were out seeking them; all the village, in fact, but when they tried the schoolhouse door and could not open it, they concluded that school had been dismissed, and turned away to search the woods,—the constant terror of the village parents.

Happily the little party of prisoners in the schoolroom did not know this, or they would have despaired.

A search was started in the woods; lanterns flashed through all the paths and byways between the trees; men called, and women silently cried, but of course no trace of the lost was found.

All night this was kept up, while, on the floor of the schoolroom, all but the two or three older ones, with the completely exhausted teacher, slept in what comfortless attitude they might.

Towards morning a bright thought came to Miss Brown. "They must think we have left the schoolhouse," she thought; "and we must contrive to let them know where we are. When the bear wakes up he will be hungry again,"—with a shudder. Then the bright thought came, "Let us make a fire in the stove; the smoke will be a sign."

There was no wood, of course, it being too warm for a fire; but there were some papers and, if need be, books—and it was the first breath of hope.

"But is there a match in the house?" was the appalling thought that paralyzed her. She asked the boys. One thought he had some, and after emptying his pockets of the miscellaneous collection that usually fills a boy's pocket, succeeded in fishing out two worn and draggled-looking matches which looked doubtful about lighting.

Miss Brown took them carefully, prepared some torn paper, and drew a match across the stove; it sputtered—and flashed—and went out. A cry of horror escaped her lips as, sheltering it in her hand, she tried the second. It burned and the paper was lighted, and in a moment the stove was in a glow.

"Miss Brown," whispered one of the older scholars, "I've heard of bears being driven off by fire; we might light a stick and try it, if he wakes up," nodding towards the still sleeping Bruin.

"Thank you—that is worth thinking of," said Miss Brown.

Now the smoke began to pour out of the chimney, and one of the tired men who had been wandering the woods all night saw it.

He uttered a shout, "They're in the schoolhouse!"

Soon fifty men, on their way home in despair at finding no trace, were about him.

"But the door is locked," said one man. "I tried that the first thing."

"Well, somebody is there!" said one; "and we better break the door in, and see who it is."

They went to the door and knocked, and then pounded, while those inside shouted and cried. At last they were heard, and, coming as near the back windows as they could get, they asked the reason of this strange performance.

"I say!" began the man standing on the edge of the bluff, "who's in there?"

"We're all in here," was the answer; "and we can't get out because a big bear is in the passageway."

"Why did you lock the door?" was the next question.

"We didn't. The bear rolled against it. He's there now. You can't open it."

The good news was quickly carried to the waiting men, and an effort was made to burst in the door, several of the men being provided with guns for their night in the woods.

But Bruin was too heavy for the united efforts, and at last they decided to shoot through the door.

Calling directions to those inside to go close to the wall on the north side so as not to be in danger from any stray bullet, the men began shooting through the door.

It was not long before the bear found it too hot for comfort, and slowly rose to his feet and started for the barricade of benches, now left without a guard.

At that instant the door yielded and burst open, and men and shots and bear and baskets and all came in a mad medley together.

Poor Bruin's troubles were soon over; he paid for his breakfast with his life.

When all was ended, and the men had a chance to look around and see the barricade, and turned to thank Miss Brown for her heroism in protecting the children, she was found in a dead faint on the floor.

It was weeks before she recovered her strength and her voice, after that terrible night, and the schoolroom—put in fresh order, with a door between it and the passage, a window cut through the side of the building, and a big dinner bell provided to ring when help was needed—was opened again for study.

* * * * *

As her mother paused, Kristy drew a deep sigh. "I'm so glad it ended well; I love to have stories end well."

"Well," said her mother, looking at the clock, "I'll tell you one more that I think ends very well indeed, for it taught—but"—she interrupted herself,—"I won't tell you the end before the beginning; you shall decide whether it ends well."



CHAPTER XV

HOW LETTIE HAD HER OWN WAY

"I just wish I could do as I've a mind to for once in my life!" said Lettie Glover crossly, when her mother refused to allow her to carry out a plan she had made. "I never can do anything I want to," she went on. "I've heard that stepmothers were horrid, but I believe real mothers are just as bad!" and she flounced out of the room.

"Letitia!" called her mother sternly, as she was about to slam the door after her, "come back!"

She turned. "What do you want?" she snapped.

Mrs. Glover was very pale. Lettie had never seen her look so, and in spite of her anger she was frightened.

"I think you need a lesson, my daughter," she said quietly, speaking evidently with difficulty, almost in gasps. "I will let you try your plan; you may do exactly as you choose for twenty-four hours; I shall not see you again till it is over," and, rising, she went to her own room, and locked the door.

Lettie stood as if stunned; she remembered, suddenly, what the doctor had said, that her mother's health was precarious, that she must not be agitated; and a feeling of dismay rushed over her; but a thought of what her mother had refused her returned, and she hardened herself again.

"I don't believe what the old doctor said, anyway," she muttered; "and I'll have a good time for once! Oh! won't I!" as the thought of what she would do came over her.

"In the first place," she thought, "of course I'll go on Stella's moonlight excursion to-night; mother's objections are nonsense. I know Stella's friends are a little wild; but they're awfully jolly all the same, and I know we'll have lots of fun—and I do love a sail on the river. I'll wear my new white dress, too," she went on, as the thought of her perfect freedom grew upon her; "I don't believe I'll hurt it, and if it is soiled a little it can be done up before Aunt Joe's party that mother's so wonderfully particular about."

It was now time to start for school, but she at once decided not to go. "I'll have a good time for once," she said, "and get rid of that horrid grammar lesson. Now I'll go over to Stella's and tell her I'm going;" and she went to her room to get ready.

"I won't wear this old dress," she said scornfully; "for once I'll dress as I please; mother's so notional about street dress!"

In her own room she threw off the scorned dark school dress and brought from her clothes-press a new light blue silk, just made for her to wear on very special occasions. "I'll wear this," she said; "I shan't hurt it; and I want Stella to see that other folks can have nice dresses as well as she."

Hurriedly she put on the pretty dress and the ribbons that went with it. Then, taking off her sensible street shoes, she put on the delicate ones that belonged to the dress.

Looking at herself in the glass, another thought occurred to her: "I'll wear my gold beads, too; mother never lets me wear them in the street, but other folks wear them, and I don't see any use of having things if you can't wear them."

From a jewel case in her drawer she took a beautiful string of large gold beads. They had belonged to her grandmother, and had been given to her because she was named after her, Letitia, though she had softened it into Lettie, "and little enough, too," she had said, "to pay for having such an old-fashioned name, when Mildred, or Ethel, or Eva, or Maude would have been so much prettier."

The beads she clasped around her throat, then she pinned on the little gold chatelaine watch her mother had given her at Christmas, and—resolving for once to wear as much jewelry as she liked—she slipped on to her finger a ring bequeathed to her by her Aunt Letitia. It was of diamonds; five beautiful stones in a row, worth a great deal of money, and far too fine for a schoolgirl to wear, her mother said. Much as she longed to wear it and show it to the girls, she had never been allowed to do so. "Now," she exultingly thought, "now I'll have the good of it for once!"

To all this finery she added her best hat, which had just come home from the milliner's, and taking a pair of fresh white kid gloves in her hand, which she couldn't put on to cover up that ring, she started out, feeling more elegant than she had ever felt in her life before.

The way to Stella's was through a corner of the park, and everything that morning was so fresh and sweet that Lettie lingered as she passed through. There were not many people there so early in the morning, and Lettie paid no attention to a rough-looking man she passed, sitting on a bench and looking as if he had passed the night there. Her way lay on the border of the wilder and more secluded part of the park, and her mother had always warned her to avoid this part when she was alone. She had therefore never penetrated the fascinating little paths which led among the close-growing trees and bushes, though she had always longed to do so. Now, on the day of her perfect freedom, the temptation came up again. She hesitated; her mother's warning recurred to her.

"I don't believe there's a bit of danger," she said to herself; "mother's so old-fashioned. Girls don't do as they did when she was young; they can take care of themselves nowadays. I mean to see where this little path goes; it looks so lovely and cool in there."

She turned into the path. It was charming; birds were singing, flowers blooming, and she walked on and on, enchanted.

After a little, however, she was struck with the loneliness of the place, and a thought of her mother's warning made her turn back towards the more frequented walks. As she turned she found herself facing the man she had noticed on the bench, and a panic seized her. She tried to rush past him, but he barred the way. She tried to scream, but she could not make a sound; and the man spoke.

"No you don't, my fine miss! If you make a noise I'll brain you!" and he flourished a heavy stick he carried. "If you behave yourself like a lady," he went on, less roughly, "I'll not hurt you in the least."

"Let me pass!" cried Lettie, white with terror.

"Certainly, miss," said he gruffly, "in one minute; just as soon as you give me those beads on your neck, and that watch; and if you hand 'em over quietly yourself you'll save me the trouble of gagging you with this,"—dragging a filthy handkerchief from his pocket,—"and taking them off myself; 'n I ain't no lady's maid, either," he added grimly, "'n I might possibly hurt you!"

Frightened half out of her wits, Lettie raised her hand to unclasp her necklace, when the flash of the diamonds on her finger caught the sharp eye of the thief.

"Golly," he said, "better 'n I thought! I'll trouble you to slip off that ring, too."

"Oh, no!" cried Lettie, "I can't!"

"Oh, well! I can take it off myself," he said. "If it's tight I'll just take finger and all," and he took out and opened a great clasp knife.

Then Lettie saw the uselessness of protest, and with despair in her heart she drew off the ring and dropped it into the dirty hand extended to receive it. Instantly it followed the beads and watch into his pocket, and he stood aside, leaving the path open for her to pass, saying, with a horrid grin, "Now you may go, miss, and thank you kindly for your generosity."

Along that path Lettie flew till she reached one of the main avenues where people were constantly passing, when she fell into a seat, wild-eyed, and almost fainting.

"What's the matter?" asked a gruff policeman who came near. "What you been doing, miss?"

"Oh, go after the thief!" she cried; "I've been robbed."

"Which way did he go?" asked the man, evidently not believing her, the idea of being robbed in broad daylight, here in the park, appearing to seem absurd to him.

"Down that path," cried Lettie excitedly, "a great rough man with a big stick! Oh! do go! he has my gold beads and my diamond ring and"—

Whether the policeman did not care to encounter a rough thief with a big stick, or whether he really did not believe her, he here interrupted with:—

"I guess he has your sense, too! I think I better run you in—you'll do fine for the crazy ward!"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, no!" cried Lettie, this new danger filling her with terror. "Never mind; let him go, but don't arrest me. It would kill my mother, and me too!"

"Well, then, don't talk so crazy," said he gruffly. "I don't believe your story—nor nobody won't, an' if it's true, 'n I should get him, I'd have to lock you up for a witness. Tell me where you live, 'n I'll see you safe home."

"Oh, no!" she cried, tears running down her face, "I'll go right home. My mother is sick, and it would kill her!"

The man was evidently touched by her distress.

"Well, miss, you just walk along, and I'll keep you in sight to see that no more robbers get after you."

With that she was forced to be contented, and with all the strength left to her she hurried along the paths towards home, the policeman following at a little distance and keeping her in sight till she ran up the steps of her home and disappeared inside.

Lettie ran up to her room, and, locking the door, flung herself on the bed, where she had a long cry, partly from nervous strain from the fright she had suffered, and partly for the loss of her treasures.

"I was a fool!" she said bitterly. "Mother always told me it was unsafe to wear jewelry in the streets and to go into those solitary paths in the park; but I didn't believe her. I was a fool, and I'm well paid for it! I'll never tell her—never!

"And I shall never dare to let father know, either," she went on later; "he'd scour the world to find that man, and I should have to be locked up as a witness,"—she shuddered,—"I'd rather lose everything."

A good deal subdued by this experience, she almost decided to give up the particular thing which had given her her liberty for the day,—the moonlight sail on the river. But after hours, when she had calmed down and decided that she would keep her experiences and her losses a secret from everybody, the thought of the great temptation again stirred her, and she finally resolved to carry out her plan and go.

"It's likely," she said to herself, "that I'll never have another chance to do as I like,—not for years, anyway,—and I'll have the good of this one." Having come to this decision, Lettie found herself hungry, for she had been too excited to take any luncheon at the usual hour. She accordingly went down to the pantry where the cook had spread out the morning's baking; there was a goodly array of pies and cakes and other good things cooling on the shelves, and Lettie thought herself in great luck.

"Now I'll have a good lunch," she said to herself, "and no bread and butter, either! I hate bread and butter!"

She helped herself to several little cakes which cook made particularly nice, and with them she ate part of a jar of marmalade which she opened for the purpose; next she took a tart or two, and then turned her attention to the row of pies on another shelf. Looking them over carefully, she chose her favorite, a custard pie. "Now I won't eat any old crust, as mother makes me," she said. So she took a spoon and began on the contents of the pie, thus demolishing, I regret to say, a whole pie. Then, calmly dipping into a pan of milk, taking cream and all, she drank a glass of that, and, feeling fully satisfied, she left the pantry, and returned to her room to prepare for the evening.

"I guess I'll wear this silk dress after all," she said to herself, for she was invited to stay all night with Stella after the sail. "I'll have to come home through the streets in the morning, and if the white one gets soiled it won't look very nice; and besides, I want mother to see that I can take care of my clothes myself."

So, wearing her pretty silk dress and delicate shoes, and carrying another pair of gloves,—for she had lost the white ones in the excitement of the morning,—she started out, leaving word with the servants that she should stay with Stella all night.

She reached the house safely, and was warmly welcomed by Stella, and in the excitement of planning and talking over the sail of the evening she almost forgot, for a time, the unpleasant affair of the morning.

"It's a pity you wore that pretty new dress," said Stella, who was clad in a sailor suit of dark wool, for the boating; "I'm afraid you'll spoil it,—a boat's a dirty place."

"I guess I shan't hurt it," said Lettie.

"I wish you'd wear one of my woolen suits," said Stella; "I hate to see a pretty dress spoiled, and that couldn't be hurt."

"No, indeed!" said Lettie; "I couldn't wear any one's dress, and if that gets spoiled—why, I'll have to get another," she added proudly, though she knew in her heart that her mother could not afford another, that season.

"Well," said Stella, "you must of course do as you choose."

The boating party consisted, besides Stella and Lettie, and Stella's cousin Maud, of Stella's brother and two of his friends. These two young men it was to whom Lettie's mother had objected. They were rather wild fellows, sons of rich men, and not obliged to do anything, given up to sports and rather noisy pranks in the city. They were intimate with Stella's brother, who was one of their kind also.

The moon rose about nine o'clock that evening, and at that hour the gay party took their way to the little boathouse, where they embarked in a small sailboat which was waiting for them.

The young men understood the management of a boat, and for a time all went well. They talked and laughed and sang, and enjoyed the moonlight and the rapid motion, and Lettie thought she never had such a lovely time in her life.

After awhile the spirit of teasing began to show itself among the boys. They liked to frighten the girls, as thoughtless boys often do, and after such harmless pranks as spattering water over them, to hear their little screams of protest, they fell to the more dangerous, but very common, play of rocking the boat, threatening to upset it.

The girls, resolved not to be frightened, for a long time did not cry out, and this drew the boys on to greater exertions, determined to make them scream and beg. At last the thing happened that so often does happen to reckless boys,—a sudden puff of wind caught the sail, the boat lurched, and in a moment the whole party were struggling in the water.

Thoroughly frightened now, the boys, who could all swim, at first struck out for the shore, which was at some distance. Then, recalled to their senses by the cries of the girls, two of them turned back to their aid. Whether they would have reached the shore with their frightened and unmanageable burdens is uncertain, but, a tugboat happening to come along, they were all picked up and carried to a dock a mile or more below.

There, after waiting a half hour, drenched and chilled all through, while the boys tried in vain to get a carriage,—for by this time it was very late,—the party took a street car, which carried them up town, but not near Stella's, and they had to wait another half hour at a crossing for another car.

It was two o'clock in the morning before Lettie, with Stella and her brother, reached the house, a wretched, draggled-looking, and very cross party, all without hats,—for these had been lost in the river,—and Lettie, her fine silk dress a ruin, her delicate shoes a shapeless mass from which the water squirted as she walked.

By breakfast time Lettie, who was a delicate girl, was in a high fever, and the doctor, who was hastily called in, decided that she was threatened with pneumonia. Lettie's mother was notified, and hurried down, and, bundled up in many wraps, Lettie was conveyed in an ambulance to her home and her own bed, where she remained for weeks, battling for her life, delirious much of the time, and living over in fancy the horrors of the day she had had her own way.

Some weeks later, after her recovery, her mother, one morning, said quietly, "Lettie, let us count up the cost of your doing as you liked."

Lettie trembled, but her mother went on.

"There's your dress and hat and shoes ruined and lost in the river—consequently the loss of your visit to your Aunt Joe; there's your illness, which deprived you of the school-closing festivities; and the doctor's bill, which took all the money I had saved for our trip to the seashore this summer."

She was going on, but Lettie, now thoroughly penitent, suddenly resolved to make a clean breast of all her losses, and have the thing over.

"Oh, mother!" she cried, burying her face in her mother's lap, "that isn't all my losses; I must tell you, I can't bear it any longer alone," and then with sobs and tears she told the dismal story of the robbery.

"Lettie," said her mother, "I knew all that the very day it happened. After you had gone to Stella's the policeman came to the house to see if you had told him the truth. When he told me what you had said I went to your room and discovered the loss."

"Oh, mother!" cried Lettie, "I'll never—never"—

"If I had not learned it then," went on her mother, "I should have known it later, for in your delirium you talked of nothing else; you went over that fearful scene constantly. I feared it would really affect your reason."

"Oh, mother!" cried Lettie, "you never told me!"

"We will not speak of it again," said her mother; "I think you have learned your lesson."

* * * * *

"Do you think it ended well, Kristy?" asked her mother as she finished the story.

"Well," said Kristy hesitating, "I suppose it was a good thing for her to find out that her mother was right,—but wasn't it horrid for her to lose all those beautiful things!"

"It was a costly lesson," said Mrs. Crawford; "but I think it was much needed—she was a willful girl."

Just at that moment the door opened and Uncle Tom entered.

"Well," he said, "how did Kristy get through the rainy day that spoiled her picnic?"

"In the usual way," answered Mrs. Crawford.

"Levying on everybody for stories?" asked Uncle Tom.

"Yes," said Kristy; "and I've had the loveliest ones"—

"Kristy," said Uncle Tom, "I want to give you a birthday present, but knowing your preference for stories, I did not venture to offer you anything else. So, happening to hear a specially interesting one to-day, I have persuaded the relater to come and tell it to you."

Mrs. Crawford looked up in surprise. "Tom," she said doubtingly, "what new pranks are you up to now? You're almost as young as Kristy herself."

Uncle Tom tried to look very meek, but there was a twinkle in his eye which did not look meek at all.

"Please, sister mine," he began, "our niece Katherine—otherwise Kate—has just got back from San Francisco, or what is left of it. She went through the earthquake and the fire, lost all her goods and chattels, and found a baby, which she has brought home. She is in the hall waiting to be received."

Before the last words were spoken Mrs. Crawford had risen and hurried into the hall, where, sure enough, the refugee from San Francisco, a girl about fourteen years old, sat smiling, with a pretty little girl of perhaps two years in her lap.

"Uncle Tom wanted me to make my visit to you to-night," she said, after she had been warmly welcomed and taken into the sitting-room, "as a present to Kristy, who is as fond of stories as ever, I hear."

"Indeed she is!" said Mrs. Crawford, "and in this case we shall all be very much interested to hear your adventures. It must have been a fearful experience."

"It was," said Kate; "but now that it is over I think that I, at least, have gained more than I lost, because I found this baby—though what I shall do with her I don't know yet. Of course I have tried my best to find her parents, for, if living, they must be nearly crazy about her."

"Surely they must," said Mrs. Crawford; "she is a darling."

"Well!" interrupted Uncle Tom, looking at his watch, "time is passing; is Kristy to have her story?"

With a smile at his pretended anxiety, Kate began.



CHAPTER XVI

HOW KATE FOUND A BABY

I had been spending the winter, as you know, with my sister in San Francisco, going to school, and I was expecting to come home in a few days when the thing happened.

I was awakened by being flung violently out of bed across the room, where all the light furniture, such as chairs and all loose things, followed me. I tried to get up, but I could not stand, the house shook so. It seemed like a ship in a rough sea. In a minute the plastering began to fall, and I feared it would fall on my head, so by hard work I dragged myself to the door, which I tried to open. At first it was jammed so tight together that I could not stir it, but the next shake of the house flung it wide open, and I crept into the hall, where I found the whole family hurrying out of their rooms, all in nightclothes, of course, and scared most to death.

"We must get out of the house before the walls fall," said my brother-in-law, helping his wife down the stairs, which swayed and tottered as if they would fall, every minute. We all followed them in such a hurry that I don't remember how I got to the bottom. I only remember finding myself on the sidewalk in my nightdress, barefooted and bareheaded, of course.

We did not think how we looked; the street was full of people, many of them as little dressed as we, and all hurrying to get out of the streets, where any minute the houses might fall on them. Our apartment was in a large apartment house in a street full of tall buildings, and when I looked up at them I saw them rock and bend towards each other, so that it seemed as if they would fall together and crush us all.

My first trouble was getting separated from my sister and her husband, in the confusion of the crowd. I soon found myself alone among strangers. I tried to turn back to find them, but everybody was going the other way and I couldn't move a step, so I had to go with the crowd. I was pushed and hurried on with the rest towards a park at the end of the street, feeling desolate enough, you may be sure.

Strange things I saw on the way; none of the people more than half dressed, and many of them just as they got out of bed, but one and all, except myself, carrying some of their possessions. Some had armfuls of clothes which they had snatched up as they ran, and they kept dropping shoes and light things, so that the street was littered with them and I was constantly stumbling over them; some had an armful of books or papers; others carried pieces of china or silver; many had satchels or suit-cases, and one or two were dragging trunks.

A great many people had children; some holding one and dragging one or two others; more than one I saw carrying sick persons unable to walk.

It was curious to see the number of pets that were being carried; birds, of course, many in cages, but some in the hands—such as parrots. One woman had three cages of canaries, which she had the greatest difficulty in holding; another had a birdcage in one hand and a great cat in the other arm. There was no end to the small dogs in arms—barking and howling, most of them; but the cats were struggling as if scared out of their wits. Sometimes a bird or a cat would break away and disappear at once in the crowd, and I wondered where the poor things went. But many were carried safely, I am sure, for the park, where we all—thousands of us—spent the day and night, seemed to have almost as many animals as people.

In the park I found the baby. She was sitting on the ground, holding in her arms a big cat. She was smiling and talking to "Kitty," and did not seem at all frightened by the crowd and the confusion around her. I thought her mother must have left her for a minute, and I sat down beside her to keep watch that no harm came to her.

There I sat all that day and night, but no one came to claim her. She could not tell me anything, of course, but she took kindly to me. Indeed, she seemed to adopt me from the first minute, and she was so sweet I couldn't bear to leave her. She never once cried except when she got very hungry, and when she found, in the morning, that her cat had gone.



I had, after the first attempt, given up going about looking for my sister. I knew she would be looking for me, and I could not bear to leave the baby, as I said. Through that long night I sat watching the city burn, holding in my arms the dear little thing, who slept through it all. I was so excited that I almost forgot that I was not dressed. Many people around me were in the same plight, but it was a warm night, so that we did not suffer.

But how alone I did feel! I did not know whether Belle and Harry were alive, nor how I should ever get home. It seemed as if we should all be burned up, anyway. The park was almost as crowded as a city; people everywhere around me; some lying asleep, tired out, on the bare ground; others mourning over their losses, and others guarding the few things they had saved. One woman near me had two pillow-cases full of things, which she sat on all night, and another had a bedquilt, which she spread out for her four children to lie on.

It's very queer, but I seem to forget about a good deal of the time the next day, for I can hardly remember how long it was when, after hours of walking, it seemed to me, I reached the place where food was being given out, the baby in my arms, of course. And not until I had eaten a piece of bread and seen her nibbling on one, too, did I seem to come to myself and rouse myself to see what I could do.

All this time baby was still mourning her lost kitty, and trying to take every cat she saw. It was wonderful how many people had cats with them; some held by a string, some in birdcages, but many held in arms. When the people got food I noticed that they always seemed to share with their pets. There were a great many dogs, but they were not so wild as the cats; they stayed by their friends.

There were lots and lots of canaries in cages, and parrots and other large birds, some in cages and some held in hands or seated on the shoulders of their owners.

After having something to eat and getting really waked up, I began to think what I should do. My first thought was to try to get over to Oakland, where we had friends, so I started off towards the ferry. My feet were blistered and sore, and it was hard to walk; my hair was flying every way, for of course my braids had come out and I had no comb or brush. I must have looked like a crazy creature. As I came past a wagon in which a woman was distributing clothes, she noticed me and spoke to me. I had not seen that she had clothes. She called out, "See here, my girl! I think I have a bundle for you," and she put a large package in my hands, marked, "To be given to some one girl in need."

"You look like the one for whom this was intended," she said kindly, as I took the package, "and I think I can give you something for the baby, too," she went on.

She did not find any clothes suitable, but she gave me a white flannel petticoat to wrap round her. Then I borrowed a knife from a man who was cutting bread, and cut armholes, and slipped the petticoat over her. The band came around her shoulders, and her nightgown covered her neck and arms. She did look too cute for anything in her odd dress.

As soon as I could find a rather quiet place under a low tree—for I was still in the park—I opened my bundle. I wish I could know the woman who made up that package, I should like to have her know what a godsend it was; why, it held a complete outfit for a girl of my size, from shoes and stockings up to a hat. Nothing had been forgotten—underclothes—towel—soap—comb—pins—handkerchief—even ribbons to tie the hair. Above all, a comfortable dress of some gray goods, which fitted me pretty well.

It didn't take me long to put them on, to comb my hair, and wash myself and baby with the towel wet in a pond, and then I began to feel more like myself. With both of us comfortably dressed I started again with fresh courage for the ferry to Oakland.

I had to go a very roundabout way, so many streets were closed because of the fires raging everywhere. I haven't said much about the fires, but it seemed to me the whole world was burning up. I am sure I walked miles, and not knowing that part of the city very well, I guess I walked more than I needed to.

As I was passing wearily down one of the streets I happened to glance over the other side, and saw my brother-in-law. He was hurrying the other way, going out towards the park, looking for me.

I cried out, "Harry!"

He turned, looked over, but seeing only a well-dressed girl with a child in her arms, was rushing, on when I called out again.

"Harry! don't you know me? I'm Kate!"

Then he hurried over, perfectly astounded.

"Why, Kate!" he cried, "where did you get those clothes? Did you bring them from the house? And whose baby is that? Thank God I have found you! Belle is nearly crazy about you!"

Of course I told my story as we hurried to the ferry. He did not object to the baby; he fell in love with her as I had, and neither of us dreamed of leaving her, and he carried her himself. He told me that he and my sister, after looking in vain for me, and suffering agonies about me, had managed to get over the ferry that first day, and were with friends in Oakland. As soon as he got Belle safely through he had come back to look for me. He had great trouble to get back, for people were not allowed to land in the city. He had to hire a man who had a small boat to bring him over. He had been roaming the streets ever since—that was a whole day and another night, you know.

He had brought from Oakland a raincoat to put over me, the only thing that could be found, our friends having already given everything they had to destitute people. Even my sister, he said, was not more than half dressed. The raincoat, which he held on his arm, I did not need, and when we came upon a lady not even so well dressed as I had been, I proposed to give it to her. She took it with sobs and tears of thanks. Learning that she had friends in Oakland, Harry offered to have her join us, but she was looking for her family and would not go.

You can't imagine what crowds were packing the ferry boats. We had to wait hours before we could get on one. Such a jam I never saw. I should never have got over alone. I had to hang on to Harry's arm with all my strength, while he held baby up high so that she should not be crushed. It was fearful!

On the boat were more strange sights. I saw several women with big hats on, and nothing else but nightclothes; but queerest were men in similar costume with hats on their heads—they did look too funny for anything. I saw girls with dolls in their arms, and some with cats and dogs and parrots. A good many women had Japanese kimonos, and others were loaded with jewelry, chains and bracelets, and there were people wrapped like Indians, in blankets and sheets they had snatched from their beds. Oh, I can never tell you half the strange things I saw on that boat!

When we got to our friends in Oakland we found the house full, and my sister had been almost wild about me. She was surprised enough to see me well dressed, and with baby, too.

Of course none of us had any money, and our friends had given away all they happened to have out of the bank at the time, so we had to stay there a few days. The railroads carried people free to Los Angeles, and there my brother-in-law could get money and buy clothes, but the cars were so crowded that it was two or three days before we could get a chance to go, and when we did get there we stayed a few days to prepare for our journey home. Belle came with me and baby, but Harry went back to San Francisco to see about starting business again.

Belle wants to keep baby herself, unless her parents appear, but I can't bear to give her pup, though I suppose it would be ridiculous for a schoolgirl to adopt a baby, and mother such an invalid that she couldn't have the care of her. Isn't she sweet, though?

* * * * *

"She's a precious pet," said Mrs Crawford, holding her closely in her arms. "I should dearly love to keep her myself!"

"Oh, do!" cried Kristy eagerly, "that is, if Kate'll give her up. What's her name, Kate?"

"Of course I don't know her real name," said Kate; "but I think I shall call her Francesca, after the place where I found her."

"That'll be good," said Kristy.

But now Uncle Tom interrupted, taking the sleepy baby in his arms.

"Miss Francesca ought to be in bed long ago, so we must say good-night, everybody," and he started off. Kristy cried after him, "Good-night, Uncle Tom, and thank you for the fine ending to my Rainy Day Picnic."



By Olive Thorne Miller

THE BIRD OUR BROTHER. 12mo, $1.25 net. Postage 11 cents.

HARRY'S RUNAWAY AND WHAT CAME OF IT. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25.

WHAT HAPPENED TO BARBARA. 12mo, $1.25.

KRISTY'S RAINY DAY PICNIC. Illustrated in color. 12mo, $1.25.

KRISTY'S SURPRISE PARTY. Illustrated in color. 12mo, $1.25.

KRISTY'S QUEER CHRISTMAS. With colored frontispiece. 12mo, $1.25.

WITH THE BIRDS IN MAINE. 16mo, $1.10 net. Postpaid, $1.20.

TRUE BIRD STORIES FROM MY NOTE-BOOKS. With a colored frontispiece and illustrations by Louis Agassiz Fuertes. Square 12mo, $1.00, net. Postpaid, $1.08; also School Edition, 60 cents, net.

THE FIRST BOOK OF BIRDS. With many Illustrations, including 8 full-page colored Plates. Square 12mo, $1.00; also School Edition, 60 cents, net.

THE SECOND BOOK OF BIRDS: Bird Families. Illustrated with 24 full-page pictures, eight of which are in color, after drawings by Louis Agassiz Fuertes. Square 12mo, $1.00, net. Postpaid, $1.10.

UPON THE TREE-TOPS. With 10 Illustrations by J. CARTER BEARD. 16mo, $1.25.

A BIRD-LOVER IN THE WEST. 16mo, $1.25.

LITTLE BROTHERS OF THE AIR. 16mo, $1.25.

BIRD-WAYS. 16mo, $1.25; also in Riverside School Library, 16mo, half leather, 60 cents, net.

IN NESTING TIME. 16mo, $1.25.

FOUR-HANDED FOLK. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.25; also in Riverside Library for Young People, 16mo, 75 cents.

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Transcriber's Note:

Variations in hyphenated words have been retained as in the original publication.

On page 117 an open quotation mark has been added before This is something new."

THE END