BOOKS BY

MARGARET SIDNEY

A LITTLE MAID OF CONCORD TOWN

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill

A LITTLE MAID OF BOSTON TOWN

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill

THE FAMOUS PEPPER BOOKS

IN ORDER OF PUBLICATION

Twelve Volumes Illustrated

FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND HOW THEY GREW
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS MIDWAY
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS GROWN UP
PHRONSIE PEPPER
THE STORIES POLLY PEPPER TOLD
THE ADVENTURES OF JOEL PEPPER
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS ABROAD
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AT SCHOOL
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND THEIR FRIENDS
BEN PEPPER
FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS IN THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
OUR DAVIE PEPPER

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON

“My! don’t you hear the logs crackle, and isn’t this blaze perfectly beautiful!”—Page [124].

OUR DAVIE PEPPER

BY
MARGARET SIDNEY
Author of “Five Little Peppers and How They Grew,”
“Five Little Peppers Midway,” “Five Little
Peppers Grown Up,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY ALICE BARBER STEPHENS

BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

PEPPER
TRADE-MARK
Registered in U.S. Patent Office

Copyright, 1916
By Harriett M. Lothrop

All rights reserved
Published, August, 1916
OUR DAVIE PEPPER

Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
NORWOOD, MASS.
U. S. A.

PREFACE

I often run down to Badgertown and into the little brown house to talk things over with the Peppers, and every single time they one and all tell me they don’t think I have told enough about David.

It quite cut me to the heart the other day to hear Polly say mournfully, “You’ve made a book about Ben and one about Phronsie, and you’ve told all about Joel’s Adventures, and stories that I made up; and you never let Davie have a book—and he is our Davie.”

“Oh, I will, Polly—I will!” I promised. And she laughed gleefully, and Ben smiled in great satisfaction, and Joel said: “Whickets! Now, Dave, you’re going to have a book all to yourself.” And Phronsie crowed and gurgled, and made a cheese right in the middle of the old kitchen floor. As for Mother Pepper, the look she gave me, well—wasn’t I glad that I had promised!

But David ran up to me and whispered, “I’d rather you made another book about Joel.”

“I can’t, Davie,” I whispered back, “the children all over the country have been teasing me for years to give them a book about you. And now as all the rest of the Pepper family want it, why, you see, I just must write it.”

“O dear!” said David.

Polly ran over to our corner. “Dear Margaret Sidney,” she begged, clasping her hands, “please tell all about Davie when he was a little boy. That’s what we want; because you see you told ever so much more about the rest of us than you did about him. And Davie was always just splendid! Why, he was our Davie!”

So now here is “Our Davie Pepper,” just as the Little Brown House people wanted me to write it.

Margaret Sidney.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

OUR DAVIE PEPPER

CHAPTER I
DAVIE AND OLD MAN PETERS

“MY sakes! David Pepper, you can’t get it in.”

“Perhaps I can, Mrs. Peters.”

“No, you can’t. There, give it to me. You’re all het up, runnin’ on arrants for Mr. Atkins. He shouldn’t ’a’ told you to hurry clear down here from th’ store.”

David sank down on the wooden box turned upside down outside the Peters kitchen door, and watched Mrs. Peters’s vigorous efforts to crowd a long woolen coat, very much frayed on the edge, one sleeve gone, and various other dilapidations that might be noticed, into a round, splint-bottomed basket. “Your ma c’n do th’ mendin’ better’n me,” she said, during the process, and dropping her voice as her eyes roved anxiously. “I put th’ pieces underneath. O my!” she whirled around suddenly, her back to the basket, and brought up a red face. “How you scar’t me, Tildy!” as the kitchen door was flung wide and a head thrust out.

“’Tain’t Pa—you needn’t be afraid.” Yet Tildy looked over her shoulder and grasped her apron tighter over something huddled up within its folds, as she skipped over the big flat stone. “You know as well as I do that he’s well off toward the south medder.”

“’Tain’t nothin’ to be certain sure of, if your pa is headed for th’ south medder, that he won’t see what we’re doin’ here,” said her mother hopelessly. “Well, what you got in your apron?”

Matilda knelt down by the basket on the grass, and flung her apron wide. “It’s some o’ my quince sass.”

“You ain’t goin’ to give that away!” cried Mrs. Peters in alarm, and resting both hands on her knees. “Gracious, your pa—”

“Let Pa alone, can’t you?” cried Matilda lifting the coat-edge to tuck in the big glass jar. “I guess he won’t rage an’ ramp no more at th’ sass, than your lettin’ Mis Pepper mend this coat.”

“Well, I d’no. Sass is sass, an’ your pa knows how many jars you put up—O dear me, Matilda!” She gazed helplessly off toward the south meadow.

Davie got off from the wooden box. “Oh don’t, Mrs. Peters,” he begged in great distress, “send the jelly to Mamsie.”

“’Tain’t jell—it’s sass,” said Matilda, pushing the jar in further, and flapping the coat till it bulged over the basket. “An’ I guess I ain’t goin’ to let your ma have all them measles to your house, an’ not do nothin’. There—” She jumped to her feet. “You got to carry it careful, Davie. It’s too bad there ain’t no handle.” She twitched the frayed cord that served as one, “I’ll get another string.”

“Come back here, Tilly,” cried her mother. “Ain’t you crazy! Your pa’ll be back. Let Davie go.”

Matilda turned away from the kitchen door. “Ain’t you silly, Ma!” yet she came back. “Well there, run along, Davie, an’ carry it careful.”

“An’ you tell your ma,” said Mrs. Peters, “we’re sorry she’s got all the measles to her house, an’ she c’n mend my coat better’n me, an’ she mustn’t tell no one it’s for Mis Peters, an’—”

“Land, Ma, th’ boy can’t remember all that,” said Matilda, giving David a little push.

“I guess I can—I’ll try to,” said David, grasping the old worn string with both hands.

“You go along,” said Matilda, with another push, “an’ if you see Pa comin’ along anywhere, you set th’ basket in behind th’ bushes till he gits by. Remember, David Pepper!”

“Yes,” said David. “I’ll remember.”

“Well, now come along, Ma Peters,” said Matilda; “he hain’t spilled th’ things yit, an’ he’s turned th’ road. We’ve got to git back to work.”

“’Twouldn’t be so bad ef you hadn’t put in that quince sass, Tildy,” mourned her mother, picking up her worn calico gown to step over a puddle of water from a broken drain-pipe. “But I’m awful skeered about that.”

“Oh, Ma, you make me sick.” Matilda gave her a little push into the kitchen, slipped in after her, and slammed the door; but her hand shook as she took up the broom. “I’m goin’ to work anyhow. You c’n set an’ worry about Pa, ef you want to. I’m glad for my part, that Mis Pepper’s goin’ to have that basket o’ things.”

“So be I,” cried Mrs. Peters. “Land sakes! I guess I’m as glad as you be, Tildy Peters. An’ I s’pose Davie’s gittin’ along towards home pretty fast by this time.”

Matilda shook her head and pursed up her lips as she went out to sweep the back entry. “All the same, I wish Davie Pepper was safe home to the little brown house,” she said to herself.

The old cord cut into Davie’s fingers as he trudged along the winding road, the basket wobbling about from side to side; but every step was bringing him home to Mamsie, and he smiled as he went along.

“Hey there!” a sudden turn of the road brought him squarely before a tall gaunt old man leaning against the stone wall on the other side of a scrub oak.

“Where you ben?” demanded Old Man Peters.

“Just—just—” began David.

“Jest where? Stop your hemmin’ an’ hawin’. Where you ben?”

Davie clutched the basket with trembling fingers and a wild despair that it was now too late to consider bushes.

“You ben down to my house, I know.” Old Man Peters’s little eyes gleamed fiercely. “Well, what you got in that basket?” pointing to it.

“It’s—it’s—”

“It’s—it’s— Didn’t I tell you to stop hemmin’ an’ hawin’, you Pepper Boy! I’ll give you somethin’ to hem an’ haw for pretty soon, ef you don’t look out.” He broke off a stick from the scrub oak.

Davie clutched the old string tighter yet.

“Let’s see,” said Old Man Peters, drawing close to poke up a corner of the coat with the stick.

“You mustn’t,” said Davie, drawing back, and putting one hand over the top of the basket.

“Mustn’t,” roared Old Man Peters, shaking the stick at him.

“No,” said Davie. “You mustn’t,” and he tried to edge off farther; but the stick came down across his little calico blouse.

“I’ll give you somethin’ to make you see that you can’t say ‘mustn’t’ to me,” said Mr. Peters, bringing the stick down again. “There, you take that!”

Davie was whirling around now so fast that Old Man Peters preferred to try the stick on the little legs instead of the small shoulders in the calico blouse, while he roared, “I’ll make you dance. Drop that basket, will you!”

“Here—what you doin’?” somebody called out, and a young man leaped the stone wall. “Hulloa, old Peters, you stop that!”

Old Man Peters turned around. He would have dropped the stick, but the young man saved him the trouble by seizing it to break it into two pieces and toss them into the dusty road.

“He’s ben a-sassin’ me,” cried the old man, pointing to David, who had sunk down on the grass by the side of the road, still hanging to the basket.

“Well, you ain’t a-goin’ to beat up any boy in Badgertown. Now I tell you, Peters! And who wouldn’t sass you, I wonder. Here you, get up,” he said, going over to David.

But David showing no inclination to get up, the man turned his face over.

“Well, I’ll be blowed, ef tain’t one o’ th’ Pepper children,” he exclaimed, starting back. “You’ve got to take somethin’ from me, now I tell you, Old Man Peters!” He pushed up his gray cotton shirt-sleeves and advanced on the old man, “for beatin’ up one o’ Mis Pepper’s boys.”

“You git away—tain’t nothin’ to you, Jim Thompson,” cried Mr. Peters, “an’ I’ll have th’ law on you, ef you tetch me!” He put up both horny hands and tried to huddle back of the scrub oak.

“Th’ law’s got to deal with you, Old Peters, first, an’ it’ll fall pretty heavy for hurtin’ one o’ them Pepper children,” declared Thompson, dragging him by an angry hand back to the road side.

“David—David Pepper!” screamed the old farmer, “you tell him. I ’ain’t hurt ye. Tell him, David. Ow! you let me be, Jim Thompson!”

David looked up and tried to speak. Oh, if Mamsie were only here! Then his head fell down on the dusty road.

“Look at that boy, you old scoundrel!” roared Thompson, cuffing Old Man Peters wherever he got a good chance. Then he flung him to the middle of the road. “Lie there till I can ’tend to you.” But the old farmer preferred to attend to himself, and without waiting to pick up his hat that had fallen off in the scuffle, he slunk off as fast as he conveniently could.

“Don’t hurt him,” begged Davie feebly, as Thompson bent over him. “Oh, I want Mamsie!”

“You’re a-goin’ to her—I’ll take you.” The young man lifted him up to his shoulder, Davie still clinging to the basket. “Where did he hurt you?” he asked anxiously.

“I’m not hurt much,” said Davie, trying not to cry.

Jim Thompson set his teeth hard. “Here, give me that basket,” and holding Davie fast by one arm, he strode off, first kicking Old Man Peters’s hat into a neighboring field where it landed in a bog.

“Mamsie—somebody’s coming, and he’s got a big bundle—how funny,” cried Polly, looking out of the window.

“A pedlar, most likely,” said Mrs. Pepper, over in the window, trying to finish a coat to go back to Mr. Atkins at the store. The measles were making it extra hard to keep the wolf from the door.

“Well, he won’t sell anything here,” said Polly with a laugh, and running to the old green door. “Why—” as she flung it open.

It was all over in a minute, and Mrs. Pepper had her boy in her arms. Davie trying to say, “I’m not much hurt,” and Polly running for the camphor bottle, while Jim Thompson set down the basket on the floor, where it rolled over and out flew the “quince sass” from the protecting folds of the coat.

“Old Man Peters was a-beatin’ him up,” said the young farmer, working his hands awkwardly together and wishing he could help.

“Mamsie,” said Davie, both hands around her neck, and cuddling up to lay his white cheek against her face, “I didn’t let him have the basket—and you are to mend the coat. You can do it so much better, she says, than she can.”

“Mrs. Peters, Davie?”

“Yes, and Miss Matilda sent the jelly—no, it isn’t jelly—but—I forget—”

“Yes, I know, dear. Now let Mother see where you are hurt.”

“Oh, Mamsie!” Polly, flying back with the camphor bottle, was aghast as Mrs. Pepper stripped off the calico blouse.

“Put down the camphor, Polly,” said Mother Pepper. Her lips were set very tightly together, and a bright spot burned on either cheek. “Bring Mother the oil bottle and get the roll of old cotton in the lower bureau drawer. Be careful not to wake up Phronsie. Thank you, Mr. Thompson, for bringing home my boy,” as Polly ran off.

“I guess I’ll go back an’ lick Old Man Peters,” said the young farmer, turning off to the door.

“Oh, no,” Mother Pepper spoke quickly. “Say nothing to him. I’ll take care of the matter.”

“I’d love to,” said Mr. Thompson longingly.

“No—No—” Mrs. Pepper shook her head decidedly. And he went off.

“Oh, Mamsie, that wicked Old Man Peters!” Polly clasped her hands, and her brown eyes blazed. “I just want something dreadful to happen to him,” and she hovered over David bolstered up in Mamsie’s rocking chair, his legs and little shoulders bound up in old cotton bandages.

“Polly,” said Mother Pepper sternly, “never let me hear you say anything like that again.”

“I can’t help it,” said Polly, fighting with the tears. Then she gave it up and ran over to throw herself down on the floor and lay her head in Mother Pepper’s lap, “to think of Davie being hurt. Oh, Mamsie!”

“I’m not much hurt,” said Davie, poking up his head from the pillow against his back, “only my legs—they’re a little bad. Don’t cry, Polly,” he begged, dreadfully distressed.

“Our Davie!” sobbed Polly, huddling down further in her mother’s lap, “just think, Mamsie,—our Davie!”

Mrs. Pepper shut her lips together, but she smoothed Polly’s brown head. “Mother will see to it,” she said, “and you must never say anything like that again, Polly. Now wipe your eyes; here comes Dr. Fisher.”

“Well—well—well—” cried the little Doctor, coming in cheerily. He was very happy as Ben was getting along splendidly, while as for Phronsie, why she just got better and better every day. Oh, the measles wasn’t so very bad after all to fight. But now, here was Davie bolstered up in the big calico-covered chair. O dear, that was too bad!

“Well, my boy,” the little Doctor got over to the chair and looked down at him with keen eyes behind the big spectacles, “what’s the matter with you?”

“I’m not much hurt,” said Davie, “only my legs—they feel the worst.”

“Eh?” said Dr. Fisher. Then he set down his bag and looked over at Mrs. Pepper. So then the story had to come out. When it was all told and Dr. Fisher became quiet, for he was almost as bad as Polly in his indignation, and Davie’s legs and shoulders had been taken care of, “You don’t need to do anything, Mrs. Pepper,” he said, “I’ll take care of that brute of a man.”

And Mother Pepper said just as she had told the young farmer, “Oh, no, I will see to the matter myself.”

“Oh, goody—I got the wood all piled at Deacon Blodgett’s.” In rushed Joel. “Come on, Dave,” and he was scurrying over to Mamsie’s big chair, when he spied the basket on the floor, for nobody had thought or cared about it. And there was the jar of Matilda’s “quince sass” that had rolled off by itself. “Oh,” he pounced upon it, “may I have some—may I?” He ran with it to Mrs. Pepper, nearly upsetting the little Doctor on the way.

“Look out there,” cried Doctor Fisher; “here, don’t run me down, Joe,” and then Joel saw Davie propped against the pillows. Down went Matilda’s “quince sass” on the kitchen floor, and he threw himself into the chair on top of Davie, poor bandaged legs and all.

The little old kitchen then was in a hubbub. It all had to be explained to Joel, who made things so very dreadful that finally Doctor Fisher said, “I’ll take him off, Mrs. Pepper. Hold on to that boy, Polly, till I’ve had a look at Ben up in the loft. If Phronsie is asleep, she’s all right. Then, Joel Pepper, you shall hop into my gig.”

CHAPTER II
MRS. PEPPER ATTENDS TO THE MATTER

PARSON HENDERSON shut the gate with a firm hand, and stepped out into the road.

The parsonage door opened, and the minister’s wife ran down the path. “Here, Adoniram, take this to Mrs. Pepper.” She put a clean folded napkin, from which came a nice smell of something newly baked, into his hand. “Oh, I do hope Mrs. Pepper will let you see that horrible Mr. Peters,” she began anxiously.

“Mrs. Pepper always knows her own mind,” said the parson, “and if she wants to attend to the matter, it’s not for us, Almira, to interfere.” He handled the napkin bundle gingerly and moved off.

“It was perfectly dreadful, Jim Thompson said, and you know he tells the truth, husband.” She pattered after him. “Do see if you can’t persuade her to let you see Mr. Peters. You know you want to.”

“That I do!” declared the parson, his eyes flashing. “Well, don’t you worry, Almira; it will be attended to.”

“He ought to be driven out of town—that old creature had,” cried his wife, with very red cheeks. “Everybody hates him. Now I hope this will make him leave Badgertown.”

“Softly there, Almira,” the parson patted one of the red cheeks. “Badgertown must be careful what it does. There are his poor wife and Matilda to consider.”

“Oh, I know it,” groaned Mrs. Henderson. “Well, do try and get Mrs. Pepper to let you fix the matter up.” She hurried over the old flat stone. There in the doorway stood Miss Jerusha.

“I sh’d think Adoniram had enough to do, without taking up with Mis Pepper’s troubles,” she said tartly.

“Oh, it’s his business to do what he can for Badgertown people, Jerusha,” said Mrs. Henderson.

“Badgertown people!” sniffed Miss Jerusha. She set her spectacles straighter, and glared at the parson’s wife. “You’ve all gone mad over that little brown house family,” she said. “For my part, I hate shiftless folks who expect to be looked out for all the while.”

“Don’t you ever call the little brown house people shiftless again in my presence.” The parson’s wife got as tall as she could, even up to her tiptoes. “Anybody with a heart would be sorry for that poor brave woman, and those dear children who are trying to help her. I can’t think, Jerusha, how you can be so—so—”

She left the last word to look out for itself, her voice trailing off. But she marched with a high head past the long angular figure, and the door of her husband’s study closed with a snap.

“Let me see ’em—let me see ’em!” Joel prancing around in the little brown house kitchen, stopped suddenly and twitched the small calico sleeve.

“No,” said David, edging off. “I don’t want anybody to see ’em.”

“I’m going to,” declared Joel, holding on with both hands to the blouse as David whirled around. “I saw ’em yesterday, and I’m going to see ’em again. Hold still, Dave. Zip!”

“There, now you’ve torn it!” Davie gave a small cry of distress.

Joel’s stubby hands dropped and he stood quite still in dismay.

“’Tisn’t torn—torn—much,” he said quite aghast.

“It’s torn—and now Mamsie will have to work and mend it. O dear!”

With that the tears fell, and Davie threw himself on the floor, and sobbed as if his heart would break.

“What is the matter?” cried Polly, rushing in from the bedroom, where she had been giving Phronsie her breakfast of mush. For once there was some real milk, for Doctor Fisher had set a bottle on the kitchen table after his visit to see how the measles were coming on. “Oh, Davie!” She threw herself down beside him. “Where are you hurt?”

Mrs. Pepper hurried over the steps from the provision room, where she had been looking over the potatoes to see how long they would last.

“I tore—tore—” said Joel, in the middle of the kitchen floor. His face was working dreadfully and he twisted his hands together trying not to cry.

“What did you do, Joe?” cried Polly, running over to him.

“Mamsie,” cried Davie, throwing his arms around her, “he didn’t mean to.”

“There—there,” said Mrs. Pepper, taking him up to her lap. “Joel, come here and tell Mother all about it.”

“He didn’t mean to,” began Davie again, wiping up his tears.

“I don’t believe Joey did mean to, Mamsie, whatever it is,” said Polly, pulling him along. He was digging one small fist into first one eye and then the other, and saying at every step, “I didn’t mean to, Mamsie,” and he threw himself down and burrowed his face on top of Davie’s legs in Mrs. Pepper’s lap.

“Stop saying you didn’t mean to, Joel, and tell Mother what you did to Davie,” said Mrs. Pepper firmly.

Joel put out a shaking hand and felt for the torn place in the little calico blouse, Polly hanging over them in great anxiety. “There,” he said, “I didn’t mean to do it, Mamsie.”

“He means he’s torn Davie’s jacket,” said Polly with a little gasp. “O dear me, Joel, you’ve scared us almost to death!”

“Mamsie will have to work and mend it,” howled Joel. With that Davie began again to cry, and to burrow deeper against Mrs. Pepper’s neck.

“For shame, Joel!” cried Polly. “It’s ever so much worse to cry now than it was to tear Davie’s jacket.”

“Is it?” cried Joel, bringing up his head suddenly and gazing at her out of two black eyes; the tears trailed down over his snubby nose. “Is it really, Polly?”

“Indeed it is, Joe,” she said decidedly.

“Then I’m not going to cry any more,”, declared Joel, wiping off the last tear with the back of one brown hand, and jumping up.

“Now, that’s Mother’s good boy,” said Mrs. Pepper approvingly.

“Whatever made you tear Davie’s jacket, Joe?” cried Polly, very much puzzled and running after him.

“I wanted to see the red things on his legs,” said Joel. “Oh, I’d ’a’ made Old Man Peters squinge and squinge if I’d been there! This is the way I’d have done.” Joel ran over to the corner and seized the broom, and landed about him so savagely that Polly flew off laughing, and Davie joined in with a merry shout, until the little old kitchen fairly rang with the noise.

“Yes—sir-ee!” said Joel, prancing madly around, “that’s the way I’d ’a’ squinged him if I’d been there.”

Davie slid out of Mother Pepper’s lap and ran after him, the torn bit of calico flapping at the end of his blouse.

“Let me, Joel,” he cried, trying to reach the broom as Joel pranced on.

“You couldn’t do it,” said Joel. “I must squinge Old Man Peters myself,” holding the broom very high. Then he saw Davie’s face. “You may have it,” he said.

Polly ran into the bedroom and came back on her tiptoes. “Phronsie’s asleep,” she said. “Now I’m awfully glad, for I can clean out the stove. Then I can get the bread in.” She ran over and knelt down before the old stove, and presently there was a great to-do with the brush and the little shovel and the old woolen cloths.

Mrs. Pepper sighed as she rolled up in a newspaper two coats that she had just finished. “I don’t know what I should ever do without you, Polly,” she said, looking over at her.

“Don’t you, Mamsie?” cried Polly in great delight, and sitting back on her heels, she brought up a countenance with long black streaks running across it. “Don’t you really, Mamsie?”

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Pepper, “and that is a fact. Mother wouldn’t know what to do without you. But dear me, child, what a pair of black hands—and your face, Polly!” as she went into the bedroom to put on her bonnet.

Polly looked down at her hands. Then she burst out laughing. “I brushed back my hair,” she said, “it tumbled into my eyes so,” and she jumped up and ran to the cracked looking glass hanging over in the corner. “My! what a sight I am!”

“Let me see,” cried Joel, rushing over. “Don’t wash it off, Polly, let me see!”

David flung down the broom and tumbled after. “Let me see, too, Polly.”

“I look just like that old black man who used to come after rags,” said Polly, turning around on them and holding up her hands.

“Oh, you do—you do!” howled Joel in huge delight, while Davie crowed and clapped his hands. “You do, just exactly like him, Polly!”

“Wait a minute,” said Polly. She rushed out and came running back with Ben’s old cap on her head and her arms in his coat. “Now wouldn’t you think I was that old black man?” she said, stalking up and down the kitchen crying out, “Any rags, Mam?” and she swung the big potato bag at them.

“Oh, Polly,” screamed Davie in a transport, “you are that old black man,” while Joel marched after echoing, “Any rags, Mam?” and swinging an imaginary bag at every step he took.

Suddenly Polly stopped, tore off the cap and the coat. “Take back the potato bag into the provision room, Joel,” she said, tossing it to him. “I forgot the stove, and the bread has got to go in. O dear me!” She flew over to the sink, and presently back she came. “There now, I’m scrubbed clean, but I’ll get all black again, I suppose,” and she kneeled down again before the stove.

Mrs. Pepper came out of the bedroom and stopped a minute by the green door to smile at them all. Then she went out with her bundle to take to Mr. Atkins at the store; but first there was another errand of importance to attend to, so she turned off at the cross-road. The smile had dropped away from her folded lips, as she stepped swiftly along toward the Peters farm.

“Here she comes—here’s Mis Pepper!” cried Matilda. “Do stop wringin’ your hands, Ma. You hain’t done nothin’ else sence yesterday. Mis Pepper can’t blame us.”

“O dear,” mourned Mrs. Peters. “’Twas th’ quince sass that made all th’ trouble.”

“’Twarn’t th’ quince sass at all,” contradicted Matilda flatly. “Pa never said a word about it. Do stop—Mis Pepper’s at th’ door.”

“Rat-tat!” went the old iron knocker. Matilda jumped, all her nerves askew, while Mrs. Peters sank down in the nearest chair.

“O dear, there ain’t time to git on a clean apurn.” Matilda opened the big door—her tongue clapped up to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t find a word to say.

“Is your father in?” asked Mrs. Pepper pleasantly. Then she looked into the scared face. “Don’t feel badly—you couldn’t help it,” she said.

Matilda twisted her hands in her dirty apron. “We feel dreadful—Ma an’ me,” she said, and burst out crying.

“There—there,” said Mrs. Pepper soothingly, trying to pat the nervous hands. “Don’t, Matilda; your mother will hear you. Can I see your father?” She stepped in and shut the door.

“He’s in there.” Matilda twitched out one hand from beneath the apron, and pointed a shaking finger to the little room that old Mr. Peters called his office. Mrs. Pepper knocked at the door.

“You better go right in ef you want to see him,” said Matilda in a loud whisper, “for he’ll sneak out th’ back door, ef he knows it’s you.” So Mrs. Pepper opened the door, and none too soon. Old Man Peters was crowding his long legs out of the big chair where he sat behind his desk, his eyes on the door leading out to the back yard.

“Oh, come in, Mis Pepper,” he mumbled, his long face getting redder and redder. “Take a chair an’ set.”

“I do not wish to sit down, Mr. Peters,” said Mrs. Pepper. “What I have to say will take but a few moments. I have come to see you about my boy.”

“Yes—yes—” grunted the old man in a terrible alarm. “Well, p’raps ’twas a mistake,” he twitched the papers on his desk with nervous fingers, then finally ran them through his shock of grizzled hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt th’ boy none. But mebbe ’twas a mistake. You better set, Mis Pepper.” He pointed to a broken-backed chair, the only one provided for his farm-hands when they went to wrangle over their hard-earned wages.

“It was more than a mistake, Mr. Peters,” said Mrs. Pepper in a clear voice, and ignoring the invitation.

“Well—mebbe—mebbe,” said the old man, wriggling around in his big chair. “See here now,” he suddenly stopped and looked in a tremor into her black eyes, “I’ll give you some money, an’ that’ll fix it up. How much do ye want?” he asked in an anguished tone.

“Money could never fix up a thing like this,” said Mrs. Pepper. Her tone was quiet, but the black eyes blazed. Old Man Peters’s hand fell in relief from the handle of his money drawer, but he slunk down in his chair.

“The only reparation you can make, Mr. Peters,” Mrs. Pepper went on, “is to be very sure that you will never lay a hand again on a Badgertown child; not only upon my child, but upon any child. You understand that?”

“Ye—yes,” mumbled the old man.

“And one more thing. That is, that you will treat your wife and Matilda as women should be treated.”

“They’re well enough off,” declared Old Man Peters suddenly. Then he snarled out, “An’ what bus’ness is it of yours, Mis Pepper, I’d like to know.”

“Very well. If you don’t promise this, I shall see that the injury to my boy is atoned for. I shall give the matter into the hands of the town authorities, Mr. Peters.”

“Here—here—” screamed the old man, flinging out both hands, as she moved off. “Stop, Mis Pepper! I didn’t mean to say I wouldn’t promise. Yes—yes—I do! Will you stop! I say I will!”

“And Badgertown will see that you keep that promise,” said Mrs. Pepper. Then she opened the door. Matilda, who had a shaking eye at the keyhole, nearly fell over backward on the entry oilcloth.

“Oh, Mis Pepper,” she gasped, seizing the strong arm. “Ma’s takin’ on somethin’ awful in th’ sittin’ room.”

“She won’t do that long,” said Mrs. Pepper grimly. “Come, Tildy.”

“Oh me—oh my!” old Mrs. Peters was throwing herself from one side of the rickety sofa in the sitting-room and moaning, with her fingers in her ears, when they came in.

“She’s got th’ high-strikes,” declared Matilda with big eyes. “I must go up garret and git some feathers an’ burn ’em right under her nose.”

“Come back—no need for that, Matilda.” Mrs. Pepper sat down on the sofa and drew the poor gray head into her arms. “There—there,” she said, just as if one of the Five Little Peppers was cuddled within them. “You’re going to see better times, Mrs. Peters. Your husband has promised to treat you and Matilda as women should be treated.”

But Mrs. Peters not understanding, wailed on, burrowing deeper into the kind arms.

Tildy jumped to her feet. “Oh my soul an’ body—did you make Pa say that?”

“Mr. Peters promised it,” said Mrs. Pepper with a smile.

“Glory be!” Tildy set up a trot to the other end of the room, coming back to snap her fingers in glee. Then the joy went out of her face. “Pa never’ll keep that promise in all the world,” she gasped, drooping miserably.

“There is no doubt that the promise will be kept, Matilda,” said Mrs. Pepper. “And if it isn’t, why you just come to me.” Then she laid Mrs. Peters’s head back on the old sofa and went out and shut the door.

CHAPTER III
THE DARK CLOUD OVER THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE

“YOU don’t say!” Old Man Beebe turned around on his little ladder where he was reaching down a pair of number six shoes for a customer. “Sho’ now, I am beat, Mis Brown! Mebbe ’tain’t true.” He held the shoes aloft, the long strings dangling down.

“There ain’t no morsel o’ doubt about it,” said Mrs. Brown decidedly. “I’ve jest come from the store, an’ Mr. Atkins himself told me. I can’t wait all day, Mr. Beebe; an’ I said gaiters. I don’t want no shoes.”

“You said shoes,” said Mr. Beebe. “However did I git up here, ef you hadn’t asked for ’em.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about th’ workin’ o’ your mind, Mr. Beebe,” said Mrs. Brown, “I said gaiters as plain as day—and do hurry!” She whipped the ends of her shawl impatiently around her gaunt figure.

“I d’no’s I have any gaiters—that is—that’ll fit you,” said the little shoemaker, putting the “number sixes” into their box, and slowly fitting on the cover. “P’raps I have a pair on the lower shelf.” He got down laboriously from the ladder, put it in the corner and began to rummage his stock.

“An’ there’s my bread waitin’ to go in th’ oven, an’ I’ve got cake to bake for the sewin’ s’ciety,—do hurry, Mr. Beebe.”

“I s’pose they’ve got to have rubber sides,” mused Mr. Beebe, getting down on his knees, to explore behind the chintz curtains that fell from the lowest shelf.

“Why, of course,” said Mrs. Brown, impatiently, “gaiters is gaiters, ain’t they? An’ I never saw a pair without them rubber sides to ’em, did you, Mr. Beebe?”

“I d’no’s I did,” said the little shoemaker, his head under the curtain. “Well, now here’s a pair, I do believe,” and he dragged out a box, whipped off the cover and disclosed a pair with elastic sides. “Them’s Congress gaiters,” he said, “an’ they look as if they’d fit like your skin.”

“I’m sure I hope so,” said Mrs. Brown, putting out her generous foot. “An’ do hurry an’ try ’em on, for mercy’s sakes!”

“I’m hurryin’ as fast as I can,” said Mr. Beebe, coming over to the bench where the customers always sat for the shoes to be tried on, “but you’ve upset me so about that bad news. Sho’ now!—to think that anythin’ should happen to the little brown house folks.”

“What’s that—what’s that, Pa?” Mrs. Beebe’s head appeared in the doorway between the little shop and the sitting-room. She had been frying doughnuts and she carried one in now on a blue plate, as she always did while they were nice and hot. “What’s th’ matter with th’ little brown house folks? Oh, how do you do, Mis Brown?”

Mrs. Brown’s nose wrinkled up appreciatively at sight of the doughnut.

“I hope nothin’, Ma,” said Mr. Beebe, not looking at the plate.

“You always have such luck with your doughnuts, Mis Beebe,” said Mrs. Brown longingly.

“Well, what is it, anyway?” demanded Mrs. Beebe, setting down the plate on the counter that ran on one side of the little shop, and coming up to the shoe-bench. “What was you sayin’, Pa, about th’ Pepperses?”

“Polly’s got the measles now.”

“Good land o’ Goshen!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe. Then she sat down on the other end of the bench and folded her plump hands.

“P’raps ’tain’t true,” he said, with trembling hands pulling on the gaiter.

“That’s too tight,” declared Mrs. Brown, wrenching her mind from the doughnuts and twisting her foot from one side to the other.

“’Twon’t be when th’ rubber ’lastic has got stretched,” said Mr. Beebe.

“Yes, an’ then the ’lastic will be all wore out, an’ bulge,” said Mrs. Brown discontentedly. “Hain’t you got another pair, Mr. Beebe?”

“Not your size,” said the little shoemaker.

“Well, if Polly Pepper’s got th’ measles, I’m goin’ right down to the little brown house,” declared old Mrs. Beebe, getting up from the shoe-bench. “I’ll set out your dinner, Pa, the cold meat an’ pie, and there’s some hot soup on the stove. I’m goin’ to stay an’ help Mis Pepper,” and she waddled out.

“Well, for mercy’s sake, Mr. Beebe, try on th’ other gaiter. I’ve got to git home some time to-day,” said Mrs. Brown crossly, all hope of a doughnut coming her way now gone entirely.

The little shoemaker stood by the door of his shop thoughtfully jingling the silver pieces in his hands, after his customer had gone out.

“To think o’ Polly bein’ took! O dear, dear! I declare I forgot to give Ma some pink sticks to take to the childern.” He hurried out to the small entry, took down his coat and old cap and rammed his hands into his big pockets.

“Here they are, just as I saved ’em for Joel.” Then he locked up his little shop and ambled down the cobble-stones to overtake old Mrs. Beebe on her way to the little brown house.

But she got there first and opened the old green door without knocking. Mrs. Pepper was coming out of the bedroom with a bowl and a spoon in her hands. Her face was very white, but she tried to smile a welcome.

“Land alive!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe in a loud whisper. “Is Polly took?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper.

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Beebe sank down in Mother Pepper’s calico-covered chair. “That beats all—to think that Polly’s took! Whatever’ll you do now!”

“Take care,” warned Mrs. Pepper, “she’ll hear you,” and she pointed to the bedroom.

“I’m whisperin’,” said old Mrs. Beebe, holding her plump hands tightly together.

Mrs. Pepper hurried up to the loft to see how Ben was getting on.

And in came the little shoemaker, his round face quite red, he had hurried so.

“Is she bad?” The whisper was so much worse than that of old Mrs. Beebe, that she got out of the big chair and hurried over to him. “Pa, you mustn’t—she’ll hear you.” She pointed to the bedroom and twitched his sleeve.

“I ain’t a-talkin’, I’m whisperin’,” he said. “Is Polly bad, Ma?” He pulled out his bandanna handkerchief and wiped his anxious face.

“Oh, I d’no,” said Mrs. Beebe disconsolately. “Everything bad that Mis Pepper gits, deary me!”

“Well, I brought some pink sticks for Joel and Davie,” said old Mr. Beebe, pulling out the paper from his pocket. “There Ma,” he laid them down on the table. “Where’s th’ boys?” he peered around the old kitchen.

“They’re over to Deacon Blodgett’s, I s’pose,” said Mrs. Beebe. “O dear me, they’ve got to work worse’n ever, now Ben’s sick.”

“Sho, now!” exclaimed the little shoemaker, dreadfully upset. “Where’s Mis Pepper?”

“Up there,” old Mrs. Beebe pointed to the loft stairs.

“I d’no what Mis Pepper is goin’ to do now that Polly is took with th’ measles,” said Mr. Beebe in a loud whisper. “Hem! O dear me!” and he blew his nose violently.

“Hush, Pa! You do speak dretful loud,” as Mrs. Pepper came down the loft stairs.

“It’s good of you to come, Mr. Beebe,” she said, hurrying into the bedroom and closing the door.

“Mamsie,” cried Polly, flying into the middle of the bed; the tears were racing down under the bandage that Dr. Fisher had tied over her eyes that morning. “Whatever will you do now that I’ve got ’em—Oh, Mamsie!” She threw her arms around Mother Pepper.

“Polly—Polly, child!” Mrs. Pepper held her close. “You mustn’t cry. Don’t you know what Dr. Fisher told you. There—there,” she patted the brown hair as Polly snuggled up to her.

“I can’t help it,” said Polly, the tears tumbling over each other in their mad race down her cheeks. “I don’t mind my eyes, if only I could help you. Oh, what will you do, Mamsie?”

“Oh, I will get along,” said Mrs. Pepper in a cheerful voice. “And just think how good Joel is.”

“It’s good Joey hasn’t got the measles,” said Polly, trying to smile through her tears.

“Isn’t it?” said Mrs. Pepper. “And Deacon Blodgett says he does splendidly working about the place. And Davie, too—oh, Polly, just think what a comfort those two boys are.”

“I know it,” said Polly, trying to speak cheerfully, “but I do wish I could help you sew on the coats,” she said, and her face drooped further within Mother Pepper’s arms.

“It’s just because you have sewed so much that your eyes are bad.” Mrs. Pepper couldn’t repress the sigh.

“Mamsie, now don’t you feel badly,” Polly brought her head up suddenly. “Oh, I wish I could see your face—don’t you, Mamsie?” She clutched her mother tightly, and the tears began to come again.

“Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, “now you and I have both got to be brave. It’s not time for crying, and you must just be mother’s girl, and lie down and keep warm under the clothes. That’s the very best way to help me.”

“I’ll try,” said Polly, as Mrs. Pepper tucked her in under the old comforter.

But although old Mrs. Beebe was kind as could be, and Grandma Bascom hobbled over every now and then, and Parson Henderson and his wife helped in every imaginable way, a black cloud settled over the little brown house. And one day Badgertown heard the news: “Joel Pepper is took sick with th’ measles, and he’s awful bad.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Mr. Atkins, turning off with the jug he was filling from the big barrel of molasses for a customer, “that boy can’t be sick.”

“Well, he is,” declared the customer. “Look out! th’ ’lasses is all a-runnin’ over th’ floor!”

“Thunderation!” The storekeeper jumped back and picked his foot out of the sticky mess, while he thrust the jug under the bunghole. “Hold your tongue, Timothy Bliss! Joel Pepper was in here yist’day—no, that was David bringin’ back th’ coats Mis Pepper had sewed—’twas day before yist’day Joe came runnin’ in, smart as a cricket. He warn’t goin’ to have no squeezles, he said, No, Sir!” Mr. Atkins turned off the spigot sharply, and set the jug on the counter with a thud.

“He’s got ’em now at any rate,” said Mr. Bliss solemnly. “An’ Mis Beebe says they wouldn’t wonder ef he was goin’ to die.”

“Die!” roared the storekeeper. “Ain’t you ’shamed, Timothy Bliss, to stand there sayin’ sech stuff! Joel Pepper can’t die.” Yet Mr. Atkins gripped the counter with both hands, while everything in his store seemed to spin around.

“Mis Beebe said—standin’ in th’ door o’ th’ shoe-shop as I come by,” began Mr. Bliss, leaning up against the counter.

“Don’t tell me no more,” interrupted the storekeeper, waving both sticky hands excitedly; “it’s scand’lous startin’ such tales.” Then he rushed over to the small door connecting with his house. “Ma—Ma,” he screamed, “Joel Pepper’s awful sick with the measles!”

“You don’t say!” Mrs. Atkins came to the top of the stairs, her sweeping-cap on her head and a dust-brush in her hand. “O me, O my!” she mourned. “What will Mis Pepper do now, with both of her boys took sick?”

“Well, she’s got Davie,” said the storekeeper, determined to get some comfort, and hanging to the newel post.

“Davie’s so little.” Mrs. Atkins sat down on the upper stair. “He’d help all he could, but he’s so little,” she repeated.

“David’s awful smart,” said Mr. Atkins.

“I know it; they’re all smart, them Pepper childern, but Joel’s so up an’ comin’, you can’t think of Davie somehow as takin’ hold o’ things. Seth Atkins, you’ve got ’lasses all over your trousers!”

She ran down the stairs and peered anxiously at her husband’s legs.

The storekeeper twitched away. “That’s Timothy Bliss’ fault. He scaret me so about Joe,” and he darted back into the store.

“I’m goin’ to help Mamsie.” David stood in the middle of the kitchen, twisting his hands together anxiously. “I’m getting to be real big now, Mrs. Beebe,” and he stood on his tiptoes.

“Bless your heart!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe, making gruel on the old stove, “so you be, Davie.”

“And pretty soon I’ll be as big as—as Joel.” Then he swallowed hard at the sound of Joel’s name.

“So you will—so you will,” said Mrs. Beebe. “An’ you help your mother now, Davie boy.”

“Do I?” cried David. A little pink spot came on each cheek, and he unclenched his hands, for he wasn’t going to cry now.

“To be sure you do,” declared Mrs. Beebe, bobbing her cap at him. “Your Ma told me yest’day she depended on you.”

“Did she?” David ran over to clutch her apron, the pink spots getting quite rosy. “Oh, I’m going to do just everything that Ben and Joel did—I am, Mrs. Beebe.”

“Well, you look out, you don’t work too hard, Davie,” Mrs. Beebe stopped stirring a minute, and regarded him anxiously, “that would worry your Ma most dretful. There, that’s done.” She swished the spoon about a few times, then poured the gruel into a bowl. “Now, then, I’ll give it to Ben.”

“Oh, let me,” cried Davie, putting up both hands eagerly.

“You’re too tired—you’ve ben a-runnin’ all th’ mornin’,” began Mrs. Beebe, yet her stout legs ached badly.

“I’m not tired,” cried Davie, and in a minute he had the bowl and was going carefully up the loft stairs.

“Now that blessed child is just like the rest o’ th’ childern,” mused old Mrs. Beebe, sinking down in a chair. “Davie’s quiet, but he get’s there all the same.”

And Davie’s little legs “got there all the same” through the dark days when Joel went deeper and deeper into the gloom. And the little brown house people held their breath in very dread of the coming hours. And good Doctor Fisher lay awake every night after the day’s hard work, going over and over in his troubled mind how he might save Mrs. Pepper’s boy.

“O dear me!” a voice broke in upon the woodshed, where Davie sat on the chopping-block. His legs ached dreadfully, but he wasn’t thinking of them. He was awfully afraid he was going to cry after all, and he twisted up his small cheeks, and held his hands together oh, oh so tightly!

“Just as I expected,” Miss Jerusha Henderson put her head in, “all this talk about the Pepper childern workin’ to help their mother is just rubbish,” she sniffed and came up to the chopping-block; “there you set, you lazy boy, you.”

“I’m not a lazy boy,” said David, getting off from the chopping-block. “Mamsie told me there wasn’t anything to do now.” His little cheeks burned like fire.

“Anything to do!” Miss Jerusha raised her long fingers and waved them about. “Did I ever—and look at all this messy place! Why ain’t you choppin’ wood, I sh’d like to know?”

“Mamsie told me not to do anything till she called me.” His head ached dreadfully, and he wanted to run, but he stood his ground.

“If ever I saw a woman who spoiled her childern, it’s your Ma,” said Miss Jerusha, sniffing again. “It’s no wonder she has trouble.”

David swallowed hard, then he looked up into her snappy little black eyes. “I wish you’d go away,” he said quietly.

“Of all the impertinent boys!” exclaimed the parson’s sister, an angry flush spreading over her gaunt face. “Well, I’m not going, I can tell you that. And I shall come every day and do my duty by you, David Pepper.”

“No,” said David, “you mustn’t come any more.”

“And I am going to speak to your Ma now, and tell her what a naughty boy you are.” Miss Jerusha picked up her gingham gown and went off on angry feet out of the woodshed.

David ran past her, and up to the door of the little brown house. When she got there he was holding the latch with both hands.

“You get off that door-step!” cried Miss Jerusha, now in a towering passion, and seizing his little calico blouse, “I declare I just ache to give you a whipping!” She raised one long hand threateningly. “You don’t get any with that silly mother of yours. Get off that door-step, I say! It’s my duty to speak to your Ma.”

“You can’t,” said Davie stoutly, “because you can’t get in.” He gripped the latch tighter, and his blue eyes flashed just like Mother Pepper’s black ones.

“Can’t, hey?” Miss Jerusha’s hard hand was laid not very gently on David’s little ones holding the old latch. Her other was raised threateningly. “Let go of that latch, or I’ll box your ears.”

Davie clung tighter than ever to the latch. Down came Miss Jerusha’s hand on his small ear. An angry red spot was on her cheek, and she struck again.

“What’s this—what’s this?” Doctor Fisher came briskly up the path. The parson’s sister turned suddenly, her hand falling to her side.

“This boy has been very naughty,” she said, the blood rushing over her gaunt cheeks.

Dr. Fisher set his big spectacles straight, and regarded her keenly.

“He has sassed me by holding this door, an’ I’m goin’ in to see his Ma.”

“Davie’s just right,” said the little doctor. He turned to give an approving smile to him still clinging to the old latch.

“Jest right!” screamed Miss Jerusha, in a towering passion. “Do you know who I be? I’m Parson Henderson’s sister.”

“Yes, I know,” said Doctor Fisher, “and I’m dreadfully sorry for the parson. I wish I could help him. But as for David here, he’s got my permission to keep out anybody he wants to. Mrs. Pepper isn’t to be worried by visitors.”

“I shall report you to the Parson,” said Miss Jerusha, getting off from the flat stone.

“Yes, do,” said Doctor Fisher, as she stalked down the path. Then he went into the little brown house to battle for Joel’s life.

CHAPTER IV
SUNLIGHT THROUGH THE CLOUD

DEACON BLODGETT exclaimed, “’Tain’t no use, I can’t set myself to work on nothin’,” and then leaned helplessly against the barn door.

Mrs. Blodgett sighed. She was far beyond words. At last she threw her apron over her head. When she did that, the Deacon knew she was pretty far gone.

“Don’t, Ma,” he begged, “take on so. Hem!” He swallowed hard and smote one big hand across the other. “’Twouldn’t be so bad ef I c’d jest see David a-runnin’ in to pile wood. Land! how smart that boy works to try to take Joel’s place!”

“Don’t speak of Joel, Pa,” said Mrs. Blodgett in a muffled voice. “Mercy me, ef he sh’d die!”

“Joel ain’t a-goin’ to die,” declared Deacon Blodgett, stoutly, “don’t you think it, Ma.”

“I d’no,” Mrs. Blodgett shook her head till the apron flapped dismally. “No mortal man c’d do more’n Doctor Fisher. Do look down th’ road, Pa, an’ see ef his gig is comin’.”

“Dr. Fisher won’t leave the little brown house to-day till Joel’s better,” declared the Deacon, not moving; but his eyes roved anxiously up and down the thoroughfare.

“I wish you’d go over to Mis Pepper’s, an’ find out how Joel is,” Mrs. Blodgett’s voice came out in a thin little quaver from behind the apron.

The Deacon braced up firmer yet against the barn door. Then he said, “You better go yourself, Mother.”

“Mercy!” ejaculated his wife with a shiver, “I’m about sick as ’tis now, I couldn’t never face Mis Pepper—O dear me!”

“Neither can I—an’ all is, I’m goin’ to work.” Deacon Blodgett brought himself suddenly away from the barn door and strode off.

“Where you goin’, Pa?” Down fell Mrs. Blodgett’s apron from her head.

“Down to th’ east paster,” said the Deacon, not turning his head. “I can’t stand still no longer an’ think o’ nothin’ but that boy.”

“Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to stay to home,” declared Mrs. Blodgett. “Nobody to talk to but Mary Ann, an’ she keeps harpin’ on the Pepperses. I’ll go down an’ see Grandma Bascom.”

So she tied on her bonnet with trembling fingers and hurried off. When she left the main road and struck the little lane that led down to Grandma’s house, she stopped abruptly. “O dear me! that’s almost as bad as to go to Mis Pepper’s, for Mis Bascom’ll take on somethin’ dreadful. My! what’s that in th’ bushes!”

A little crackling noise struck her ears, and one or two small branches stirred in the shrubbery alongside the road. There wasn’t any wind to speak of, and Mrs. Blodgett paused in fright, her fingers on her lips; but being no coward, she marched up and shook the nearest bush.

“We don’t want no tramps in Badgertown,” she began. Then she burst out, “Why, David Pepper!”

There on the ground, his face grubbing into the grass, lay David squirming back and forth, his little hands clenched.

“You poor little creeter, you!” Mrs. Blodgett got down on the ground beside him, and fairly gathered him up to her ample bosom. “You couldn’t cry in the little brown house, an’ so you’ve come out here. Poor lamb!”

“Joel!” ’Twas all that Davie was capable of.

“There—there—now you jest stop!” Mrs. Blodgett spoke sharply, she was so scared, for the sobs were shaking David from top to toe; but to stop was beyond him, so she laid him down on the grass.

“Now I’m jest goin’ to your house an’ see how things is, Davie. Then I’ll come back an’ tell you.” She got up with difficulty and shook her calico gown free from the dirt and mold.

“Don’t—don’t!” screamed David, sitting up. “Oh, Mrs. Blodgett, don’t!”

“Yes, I’m goin’, Davie, an’ you better come along of me.” She held out her hand. “Your ma would want you to.” “’Tain’t half so bad as to let him stay here an’ be scared to death in them bushes,” she reflected.

“Would Mamsie want me to?” asked Davie, blinking at her through the tears that ran down his cheeks.

“She certainly would,” declared Mrs. Blodgett. “O my!” she cried, pricking up her ears. “Well, you wait here a minute. I’ll come back for you.”

She darted down the road, if such locomotion as she set up could be called darting, and presently she saw just ahead Dr. Fisher’s old gig.

“Wait!” she tried to scream, but her tongue flapped up to the roof of her mouth and stuck there, as she panted on.

A farmer’s boy in an old wagon coming around the corner thrust his fingers in his mouth and gave such a whistle that the little doctor thrust out his head.

“Lady wants you—she’s a-runnin’ fit to split,” said the boy, pointing to the Deacon’s wife pounding the dust up dreadfully at every step.

Dr. Fisher pulled up the old horse and hopped out of the gig.

“Good gracious, is that you, Mrs. Blodgett!” he exclaimed, hurrying to meet her.

The Deacon’s wife was beyond speech, only being able to puff, her hand at her side and her face very red. So the little Doctor began the conversation.

“Do you know where David Pepper is?” he asked anxiously.

That made Mrs. Blodgett find her tongue. “He’s in them bushes,” she said, pointing a shaking finger back down the road.

“Get in—get right in,” said Dr. Fisher joyfully, taking hold of her fat arm, and hurrying her to the gig, “and we’ll get Davie—his mother’s awfully worried about him.”

Mrs. Blodgett had no chance to speak further until the gig was well under way for David’s bush. “He don’t look as ef Joel was worse,” she said to herself, peering into the little Doctor’s face, “but I’m mortal afraid to ask.”

“And now that Joel is going to get well,” said Doctor Fisher, “why we must get David home to his mother.”

“Joel goin’ to git well,” screamed Mrs. Blodgett, nipping his arm, and turning her red face toward him.

“Yes, indeed!” declared the little Doctor. “Praise God—Joel is saved to us all!” His face was very grave, but there was a light in the eyes back of the big spectacles that made the Deacon’s wife say brokenly, “Bless th’ Lord!”

“You may well say that,” said Dr. Fisher brokenly.

“An’ you too—I say bless you!” cried the Deacon’s wife heartily, “for I guess th’ Lord Himself can’t do much ef folks won’t help, too. Well, here’s David in that bush there.”

Dr. Fisher pulled up the old horse sharply, tossed the reins over the dashboard and leaped out over the wheel.

“Hulloa, David!” he cried, pushing back the branches. “Well—well!”

Davie shivered and shrank back further under the bush.

“Oh, Joey is going to get well,” said the little Doctor cheerily, poking his big spectacles in under the branches.

David sprang up and threw his arms convulsively around the little Doctor’s neck.

“There—there—good gracious, you hug worse’n a bear, Dave,” cried Dr. Fisher, bundling him up in his arms. “Now then, hop in with you!” He deposited him on the old leather seat, and jumped into the gig beside him. “We must get you home to your mother before you can say Jack Robinson!”

If David’s legs had a hard time of it when Joel was so sick, it was nothing to the way they had to run now that the dark cloud had passed over the little brown house.

Up and down the loft stairs where Joel tossed impatiently on the shake-down, Davie toiled to suit Joel’s demands, who wanted something every minute. At last Mrs. Pepper interfered. “You mustn’t, Joey,” she said; “Davie will be worn out.”

“I’ve been sick,” declared Joel, with an important air, “and Dave likes to get things.”

“Yes, I do,” said Davie eagerly, and lifting a pale face. “Do let me, Mamsie.”

“There, you see,” said Joel triumphantly.

“No,” said Mother Pepper, “you mustn’t send him over the stairs so much, Joey. He’s very tired.”

“I’m not much tired,” said David, wishing that Mamsie wouldn’t keep him from waiting on Joel.

“Yes, you are, Davie child. You’ve been mother’s boy all these weeks, and worked so hard.”

A pink flush crept all over David’s pale little face. He folded his hands, and stood quite still.

“I’m mother’s boy, too,” declared Joel, “ain’t I, Mamsie?” He rolled over in the shake-down, and fastened his black eyes on her.

“Indeed you are,” declared Mrs. Pepper warmly, “both of you. But, Joel, I want you to remember how hard Davie has worked all the time that Ben and you have been sick. You must never forget that, Joey.”

“I won’t forget,” said Joel, “and I want to get up.” With that he gave his legs a fling, and ran his toes out of bed.

“Oh, Joel,” cried Mother Pepper in alarm, “you mustn’t do that. It is the very worst thing that could happen to a boy with the measles—to get his feet cold.” And she tucked him in again snug and tight.

“My toes are hot,” said Joel, wriggling worse than ever, and making the old comforter bulge up at the side.

“I’ll sit on it, Mamsie, and hold it down,” said Davie, getting on the edge of the bed. “There.”

“Ow! No, you don’t,” declared Joel, bouncing up so suddenly that Davie slid off to the floor in a little heap.

“Joel—Joel!” reproved Mother Pepper.

“Well, he was sitting all over my toes,” declared Joel, throwing his legs about, so that Mother Pepper had to tuck him all up again.

“Can’t you pin him in, Mamsie?” asked Davie, picking himself up, to hover over the bed. “I will get your big shawl-pin,” and he started for the stairs.

“Hoh! I ain’t going to be pinned in bed,” cried Joel in a dudgeon. “Mamsie, make him come back,” he whimpered. “Don’t let him get the pin, I’ll be good.”

“See that you are then, Joel,” said Mrs. Pepper. “Come back, Davie,” as he was half-way over the stairs. “Joel is going to be a good boy, and keep his feet in bed.”

“O dear,” grumbled Joel, flouncing all over the bed as David ran back, “I want Polly to come up and tell me a story.”

“Polly can’t come now,” said Mrs. Pepper. There was a little white line around her mouth; she had her back to the bed, so that Joel could not see her face.

“She never comes,” grumbled Joel. “Oh, I’m so hot. Why can’t she come, Mamsie?”

“Can’t I tell a story?” said David, coming close. “I will, Joey.”

“Phoh!” Joel bent his black eyes on him. “You can’t tell a story, Dave Pepper.”

“Now I think Davie could tell a story very nicely,” said Mother Pepper with a smile for David.

“I can try,” said Davie, his heart beating dreadfully at the mere thought. But something had to be done to keep Joel from finding out that Polly’s eyes were so bad.

“All right,” said Joel ungraciously, “but I know it won’t be good for anything.”

“Now that’s very nice of you, Davie, and I know it will be a good story, Joel.” Mrs. Pepper gave a final tuck-in to the old comforter, and went quickly down-stairs.

“Get up on the bed, Dave,” said Joel, beginning to feel better about the story, since Mamsie thought it would be a good one. So David hopped on the foot of the shake-down and folded his hands, and wondered how in the world he was ever going to begin.

“Well, begin,” said Joel impatiently.

“Well once,” said David, “there was—”

“Yes,” said Joel, “go on.”

“There was—”

“You said that before.”

“I know it. Well, there was—”

“Stop saying there was,” cried Joel crossly.

“But there really was,” insisted David, feeling sure that in another moment he should certainly jump off from the bed, and fly over the stairs.

“Well, go on. Was what?” roared Joel, flinging back the comforter.

“Oh, you mustn’t do that,” cried David, sliding along on the bed, still feeling that he would rather do the tucking up than to tackle the story. “Mamsie said you must keep the clothes up,” and he pulled the comforter up around Joel’s neck.

“Go away,” cried Joel, “and you can’t tell a story any more than—than—an old hopper-toad.”

“I’m not a hopper-toad,” cried David, a little pink flush coming over his face.

“Yes, you are, Dave Pepper, a bad old hopper-toad,” insisted Joel vindictively, “and you don’t know any story, you old hopper-toad, you!”

David’s face worked dreadfully. “I ain’t—and I won’t tell you any story.” He got off from the bed and marched to the stairs.

“Oh, you must,” cried Joel in alarm. A bad story was better than none. “You promised, and you’ve got to, or I’ll call Mamsie, and tell her.” He tossed off the old comforter again.

“Don’t call Mamsie,” cried Davie, hurrying back.

“All right,” said Joel. Then he snuggled down in the bed, and drew the long-suffering bed-clothes up so that only his ears were sticking out. “Go on.”

“Well,” said David, climbing on the foot of the bed again and beginning very slowly, “Once there was—”

“Don’t say that again,” commanded Joel, sticking up his face from the folds of the comforter.

“A boy,” said David hurriedly.

“How big was he?” asked Joel with faint interest. But it was just as well to get the age settled on in the beginning.

“Oh, about as big as—” David hesitated.

“Have him as big as me,” said Joel, “and his arms as big,” he thrust out one, “and his legs just as exactly as big,” and he stuck out his foot.

“Oh, get back, Joe,” cried David, frantically pushing up the bed-clothes.

“Well, go on,” said Joel, huddling down again.

“And this boy was going along one day—”

“What was the boy’s name?” asked Joel suddenly.

“I don’t know,” said David helplessly.

“Don’t know,” Joel gave another kick to the clothes, and snorted, “Hoh!—you’re a great one, Dave Pepper, to tell a story about a boy and not know his name.”

“Well, it was—” David floundered helplessly, “Peter,” he brought out finally.

“All right,” said Joel, quite satisfied. “Now go on.”

“Well, one day, he was going to school.”

“Oh, don’t have him go to school,” whined Joel, dreadfully disappointed that a boy with such a satisfying name as Peter should waste time over books. “Make him going to shoot something—Go—Bang!” Joel threw up his arms, and screwed up one eye over an imaginary gun.

“All right, I will,” said David accommodatingly. “Well—but you must put in your arms, Joel.”

“Go on,” said Joel, huddling back in bed again, “go on, Dave.”

“Well, so Peter was going to school, and—”

“No—no,” interrupted Joel, “he was going out to shoot something; you said so, Dave.”

“So I did,” said Davie. “Well, Peter was going out to shoot something, and—”

“What was he going to shoot?” demanded Joel.

“I don’t know,” said Davie helplessly.

“O dear,” grumbled Joel, “you don’t know any story, and you won’t let Peter do anything,” and he flounced all over the bed.

“Oh, I will—I will,” cried Davie in great distress. “I’ll let Peter shoot anything you want—I will truly, Joel.”

“I’d rather have a bear,” said Joel, stopping his tossing about; “no, two bears. Make it two bears, Dave,” he cried, very much excited.

“I will,” said David, thinking it just as easy to deal with two bears, as long as he didn’t know in the least what to do with one. “Well, Peter was going to school—I mean out to shoot something, and he went down the road—”

“With his gun over his shoulder,” interrupted Joel.

“Yes, with his gun over his shoulder, and—and then he turned down the corner.”

“Don’t have any corner,” said Joel, “he went right straight into the woods, slap bang!”

“Oh, yes,” said David, “he went into the woods, and—”

“And have the bear—no, the two bears, come right now this very minute.”

“Yes,” said David, “I will. Well, Peter went into the woods, and he saw a big tree, and—”

“Ow! Don’t have any tree,” howled Joel. “Make a big hole for the bears to live in.”

“I won’t have any tree,” said David.

“Peter heard an awful noise,” and Joel growled fiercely, “and all of a sudden—gee whiz! and Peter looked up at a big pile of stones—no, let’s have it a cave, an awful big cave.”

“Yes, let’s,” said David, leaning forward in great delight from his post on the foot of the bed.

“Oh, such a big noise!” and Joel gave another growl, so much worse than the first that Davie gave a little scream, and a delightful shiver ran up and down his small back, as Joel showed all his little white teeth, “and Peter put up his gun, for the two bears were looking out of the cave just like this—” Joel’s black eyes were simply dreadful, they were so big, and he bounced up to sit in the middle of the bed.

“Oh, Joey,” exclaimed David in great distress, “do lie down. Mamsie won’t like it— Oh, Joey!”

“O dear!” Joel tumbled back. “I can’t shoot the bears lying down.”

“Well, you’ve got to,” said Davie, tucking him up again, “for Mamsie would feel dreadfully to have you sit up. Now go on about the bears.”

“Well, the two bears—no, one bear, jumped out of the cave first, and Peter put up his gun, and Bang! and over went the bear, and—”

“Oh, Joey!” cried Davie, in his post again on the foot of the shake-down, his blue eyes aflame, “did Peter kill the bear?”

“Yes, of course,” said Joel, “just as dead as dead could be, and the other one, too—oh, no,” he cried suddenly, “I’m going to have the other bear chew Peter.”

“Oh, no, Joel,” exclaimed David in horror. It was bad enough for a boy to be kept from school and turned into the woods, without being chewed up by a bear. “Don’t let him, Joe,” he begged, clasping his hands in great distress.

“Well, he won’t chew him all up,” said Joel unwillingly, “only his legs and—”

“Oh, don’t let the bear chew Peter’s legs,” cried David, leaning over close to Joel’s face; “then Peter can’t run away.”

“I’m not going to have Peter run away,” declared Joel, bobbing his black head decidedly.

“Oh, yes, I will, too,” he cried joyfully, and clapping his hands. “I’ll have the bear chew him a little on one leg, and then when Peter runs, the bear can chase him, and chew him on the other, and—”

“Joel,” exclaimed David, with very red cheeks, “I think that bear is a bad old bear, and I don’t like him.”

“And then he can chew Peter all up, every teenty speck,” cried Joel, with sparkling eyes. “Yes sir!” smacking his lips.

David tumbled quickly off from the bed, and made for the stairs. “I’m not going to stay here, if you have Peter chewed up,” he declared, his blue eyes flashing.

“Dave, don’t go.” Up went Joel’s head from the pillow, “I won’t let him be chewed up. You can have that bear for your own. Don’t go, Dave.”

“Can I have him for my very own?” asked David, drawing near the bed.

“Yes, you may,” promised Joel, swallowing hard, “if you’ll come back.”

“I sha’n’t let Peter be chewed up,” said Davie, clambering on to his old place on the bed once more, “and I sha’n’t have him shoot the bear either.”

“What will you do?” cried Joel in great astonishment.

“I’m going to have the bear go right into his hole again; and Peter is going to school,” said David with great decision.

“O dear me!” Joel rolled over in terrible disappointment.

“He’s my bear,” said David, “you gave him to me, and—”

“Well, Peter isn’t yours,” said Joel, interrupting. “I’m going to have Peter, so there!”

“You may have the bear, and I’ll take Peter,” said David eagerly.

“You may. I don’t want Peter—you won’t let him do anything,” said Joel. “I’d a great deal rather have the bear,” he brought up in great satisfaction.

“Well, how nice that is, Davie, for you to tell Joel a story.” Mother Pepper coming up the stairs to the loft, beamed approvingly at him.

David’s cheeks got very hot. “I didn’t tell the story,” he said, and his face fell.

“He had Peter,” said Joel quickly.

“Joel had two bears, and he told all about ’em,” said David; “I didn’t tell any story,” he said again in a sorry little voice.

“And—and—he told about Peter, and he’s going to school,” Joel brought up with a wry face.

“Well, now,” said Mother Pepper, “I think that must have been a very good story, and how nice that you two boys could tell it together.”

CHAPTER V
ON THE MAYBURY ROAD

PHRONSIE crept up to the wood-pile and peered around it. “Are you sick, Davie?” she asked in a soft little voice.

David jumped up, tossing the soft waves of light hair from his forehead. “I’m not sick a bit,” he said.

“What makes you cry then?” persisted Phronsie, picking up her pink calico dress to clamber over the wood.

Davie turned his back and wiped his hot cheeks.

“I see some tears,” said Phronsie in a distressed little voice; and stumbling on over the wood, a big stick slipped down against her toes.

David whirled around. “Don’t come!” he screamed, making frantic dives over the wood-pile. Away went two or three sticks, carrying Phronsie with them.

It was all done in a minute, and he had her out from under them. When he saw the blood on her little arm, his cheeks went very white, and his legs wobbled.

“I’ve got to get Mamsie,” he said, and rushed for the kitchen door.

“I’m going to get Mamsie,” wailed Phronsie after him.

David lent speed to his feet, and burst into the old kitchen where Polly was brushing up the floor.

“Phronsie’s hurt!” he screamed. “Do come, Polly. I’ve spilled wood all over her.” With that he rushed into the bedroom. “Mamsie—why where—”

Polly dropped the broom and flew out of doors, Davie at her heels.

“I can’t find Mamsie,” he panted.

“No, she’s gone to Mrs. Blodgett’s,” Polly threw over her shoulder as she ran on. “Where is Phronsie? Oh, Davie, where is she?”

“By the wood-pile,” gasped David, flying back of the shed.

But when they both got there, Phronsie was nowhere to be seen. To find Mamsie was her one thought, and since she knew that Mother Pepper was helping Mrs. Blodgett, why of course the hurt arm must get there as soon as possible. So she wiped up her tears on her small pink apron, and trudged on past the lane that led to Grandma Bascom’s, and into the high road.

Polly and David pulled the wood about with frantic hands, Davie saying all the while, “She was here. Oh, Polly, she was.”

“Now, David,” Polly seized his arm, “you must stop saying that for she can’t be under here. See,” she pointed to the sticks of wood sprawling about.

“But she was here,” declared David, pawing wildly in and out among the sticks.

Polly darted off into the shed and hunted in each corner, calling Phronsie at every step. Then she ran out to comfort David, and to keep up the search.

“I declare to goodness, John, ef here ain’t a little girl on th’ road!”

A woman in an old high farm wagon twitched her husband’s arm. “Do stop an’ take her in. My sakes! ain’t she a mite, though!” pushing back her big sunbonnet in order to see the better.

But before the old white horse lumbered up to the mite, down went Phronsie in a small heap in the middle of the dusty road.

“John—John!” screamed his wife. “Stop! You’re a-runnin’ over her!”

“Land o’ Goshen! ain’t I stoppin’?” roared her husband at her. The old horse almost sat down on his tired haunches at the sudden twitch on the reins. Then the farmer leaned forward and stared ahead down the road.

“Ef you ain’t goin’ to git out an’ pick up that child, I am, John Brown. Sech a mortal slow man I never see,” snorted his wife scornfully.

“An’ sech a flutter-budget as you be, no man ever saw,” Mr. Brown found time to say as he got slowly down over the wheel.

“Somebody’s got to flutter-budget in this world,” said his wife after him, as he walked slowly over to the small pink heap, “or everybody’d go to sleep. Bring her to me, John.— Oh, do hurry! Bring her to me!”

“I want Mamsie,” said Phronsie, as Mr. Brown leaned over her.

“Hey?” said the farmer, bringing his rough face with its stubby beard close to her little one.

“I’m going to my Mamsie,” said Phronsie, her blue eyes searching his face, “and my foots are tired.” With that she put up her arms.

“I’ll be blowed!” exclaimed Mr. Brown. Then he saw the little blood-stained arm and he started back.

“Take me,” said Phronsie, as she clutched his shaggy coat, “please, to my Mamsie.”

“Where’d you git hurt?” asked Mr. Brown, with no eyes for anything but the small arm with its bloody streak.

Phronsie looked down and surveyed it gravely. “My Mamsie will make it well,” she said confidently.

“John—John!” screamed his wife, from the high wagon, “are you goin’ to stay all day with that child in th’ middle of the road, or do you want me to come an’ look after her?”

“You stay where you be, Nancy,” said Mr. Brown. “I don’t know no more’n th’ last one,” this to Phronsie, “where ’tis you want to go to. But I’ll take you there, all th’ same. Now, says I, hold tight, little un.”

“I will,” said Phronsie in a satisfied little voice, putting her arms around his neck. So he bundled her up in his great arms and marched to the high wagon.

“Give her to me,” cried his wife, hungrily extending her hands.

“I wouldn’t ef I didn’t have to drive,” said Mr. Brown, as he clumsily set Phronsie on the broad lap. “She’s hurt her arm. Be careful, Mother,” as he got into the wagon and began to drive off.

“My soul an’ body!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown, pausing in the hugging process now set up, to regard the little bloody arm. “Oh, how’d you get that?”

“I’m going to my mamsie,” announced Phronsie joyfully, and ignoring the injured arm. Then she laughed, showing all her little teeth, and snuggled against Mrs. Brown’s big shawl.

“Ain’t she too cunnin’ for anythin’!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown. “Did you ever see th’ like? But how’d you git hurt?” she demanded, turning to Phronsie again.

“It was the wood,” said Phronsie, gravely regarding her arm again. “And I’m going to Mamsie.”

“She keeps a-sayin’ that,” said Mr. Brown. “Now, how in thunder will we know where to take her?”

“Don’t swear,” said his wife.

“‘Thunder’ ain’t swearin’,” retorted Mr. Brown with a virtuous air. “I c’d say lots worse things.”

“Well, git out and say ’em in th’ road, then,” advised his wife, “an’ not before this child. Where’d you say you was a-goin’?” She bent her large face over the small one snuggled against her ample bosom.

“To my Mamsie,” said Phronsie, so glad that at last she was understood.

The wrinkles in Farmer Brown’s face ran clear down to his stubby beard, as he slapped one hard hand on his knee.

“Oh, yes—yes,” said his wife, nodding her big sunbonnet.

“Don’t pretend you understand her, Mother,” Mr. Brown turned to his wife, “for you don’t—neither of us do, no more’n th’ dead.”

“You let me be, John,” said Mrs. Brown, “an’ I’ll attend to this child.”

Farmer Brown whistled and looked off up to the clouds; perhaps something might come down to illuminate the situation.

“Now, where is Mum—Mam—whatever you said?” began Mrs. Brown, patting Phronsie’s yellow hair with a large red hand.

“Off there.” Phronsie pointed a small finger off into space.

“I see,” said Mrs. Brown, nodding her sunbonnet again. The puckers were beginning to come in her face. Mr. Brown, taking his gaze off from the clouds, looked at her and grinned.

“Well, now let’s see,” said Mrs. Brown reflectively, and with a cold shoulder for the farmer; “Mamsie—”

“Yes.” Phronsie gave another little laugh and wriggled her feet. It was so lovely that they understood her; and she was really on the way to her Mamsie.

“Let’s see—now what road did you say you want to go to git to this—Mamsie?” began the farmer’s wife, smiling encouragingly at her.

“Why, don’t you know?” Phronsie lifted her head suddenly to gaze into Mrs. Brown’s face. “Off there.” Again she pointed to space.

“You keep still.” Mrs. Brown thrust her elbow into the farmer’s side, as she saw his mouth open. “You’re more care than th’ child. I’ll find out—you keep still!”

“Hem!” said Mr. Brown loudly.

“And please have us get to Mamsie soon,” begged Phronsie, beginning to look worried.

“Yes—yes,” Mrs. Brown promised quickly. “Well, now let’s see—how does Mamsie look?” she began.

“Why, she’s my Mamsie, and—”

“She?” screamed the farmer’s wife. “Oh, my soul an’ body! I thought ’twas a house.”

“Thunder!” ejaculated Mr. Brown; “now we’re in a fix, ef it’s a woman. Th’ Lord knows how we’ll ever find her.”

“Where’d you come from?” Mrs. Brown now found it impossible to keep the anxiety from running all up and down her big face. Phronsie put up her trembling little lips and pointed off, still into space.

“John,” his wife burst out, “we are in a fix, an’ that’s th’ solemn truth.”

The farmer took off his old cap and scratched his head. “Well, anyway, we’ve got th’ little gal, an’ you’ve always wanted one, Nancy.”

“Ef we can only keep her.” Mrs. Brown hugged Phronsie hungrily to her breast. “Oh, my little lamb!” she kept saying.

“I want my Mamsie!” said Phronsie, nearly smothered. “Please take me to my Mamsie!” and she struggled to get free.

“Don’t you want to go to a nice house?” began the farmer’s wife in a wheedling way, as she set her upon her knees.

“There—there.” Mr. Brown whipped out a big red handkerchief and wiped off the tears from the little face. “Ma, she’s a-cryin’,” he announced in an awful voice.

“There are chickens,” said Mrs. Brown desperately, “and—”

“Are there little chickies?” asked Phronsie, as Mr. Brown gave her face another dab with the big handkerchief.

“Yes—yes, awful little ones,” cried Mrs. Brown; “just as little as anythin’, an’ yellow an’ white an’ fluffy.”

Phronsie clapped her hands and smiled between her tears.

“An’ there’s pigs, little ones,” broke in the farmer, to hold all advantage gained, “an’ you can scratch their backs.”

Phronsie tore off her thoughts from the little chickens, yellow and white and fluffy, to regard the farmer. “Ooh! I want to see the little pigs,” she cried, leaning over to look into Mr. Brown’s face, “and I’m going to scratch their backs right off.”

“So you shall—so you shall,” he cried, “when you get to my house.”

Phronsie’s lip fell suddenly, and she flew back to Mrs. Brown’s arms. “I want to go to the little brown house,” she wailed, casting herself up against the kind breast.

“John, can’t you let well enough alone?” scolded his wife. “She was took with the chickens. There, there, child, don’t cry.”

“She liked my pigs best,” said the farmer sullenly. “G’long there!” slapping the leather reins down smartly on the back of the old white horse.

“I want to go to the little brown house,” Phronsie wailed steadily on.

“Well, that’s where you’re goin’,” said the farmer. He turned suddenly. “That’s jest where we’re a-takin’ you to, the Brown house.”

“Are you?” cried Phronsie, her wails stopping suddenly.

“Sure,” said Mr. Brown decidedly. “Now, Ma, we’ll take her home with us. We’ll inquire all along th’ road ef anybody knows who she is,” he said in a low voice over Phronsie’s head. “She’ll be all right when she sees them pigs an’ chickens.”

“An’ ef we can’t find where she b’longs, why, we’ll adopt her, an’ she’ll be ours,” finished his wife, all in a tremble. “Oh, you sweet lamb, you!” She kissed Phronsie’s yellow head.

Phronsie, quite contented now that she was on the way to the little brown house where Polly was and Mamsie would soon come, presently began to hum in a happy little voice, and the old white horse and big high wagon went jogging on over a short cross-road leading to Maybury, where the farmer and his good wife lived.

Meantime Polly and Davie were having a perfectly dreadful time searching everywhere, even turning an old barrel, afraid that Phronsie had pulled it over on herself, and scouring every inch of the ground around the little brown house. Then Davie dashed off at top speed, down over the lane leading to Grandma Bascom’s, sure of finding Phronsie there.

But Grandma, feeding her hens from a tin pan of potato and apple parings, shook her cap hard when Davie stood on his tiptoes and screamed into her ear all about Phronsie.

“Oh, the pretty creeter!” she mourned, and the pan in her hands shook so that it fell to the ground, and the hens clattered around and scratched and fought till every bit of the potato and apple skins was gobbled up.

Davie rushed off from the tangle of hens about Grandma’s feet, with only one thought—to get to Deacon Blodgett’s as fast as he could. And flying down the lane, he ran into the main road, just after the old white horse and big high wagon had turned the corner leading to Maybury, carrying Phronsie off to the Brown house.

“Whoa—there—Great Saint Peter!” shouted somebody at him. Davie was so blind with the drops of perspiration running down his face that he couldn’t see, and besides, by that time his small legs were so used to running that they kept on, even after the young man in the top buggy had pulled up in astonishment.

“Ain’t you ever goin’ to stop?” roared the young man, leaning out of the buggy and staring at him.

“I can’t,” panted Davie, pausing a moment.

“What’s th’ matter? Goin’ for th’ doctor?”

“I’m goin’ for Mamsie,” said Davie, rushing on.

“Hold on! Who you’re goin’ for?” roared the young man.

“Mamsie,” panted Davie, whirling around.

“I d’no what in th’ blazes that is,” the young man took off his cap and scratched his head. “Well, what are you goin’ for, lickety-split like that! Come here, you boy!”

Davie came slowly up to the side of the buggy. Somehow a note of hope began to sing in his small heart that maybe the young man might help.

“I let my sister get wood spilled all over her,” he said, his face working dreadfully, “and she’s lost, an’ I’m going to Mamsie.”

“I can’t make head nor tail of it at all,” said the young man. Then he put on his cap, since scratching his head did no good. “Well, your sister’s lost, you say?”

“Yes,” said Davie, hanging to the wheel. “Oh, have you seen her, Mr. Man? She had on a pink dress—”

“Hey? Oh, thunder an’ lightnin’!” he slapped his knee, with a red hand, “was she a little gal?”

“Yes—yes,” cried Davie, with wide blue eyes. “Oh, have you seen her, Mr. Man?”

“I think likely,” said the young man, bending over till his face nearly touched Davie’s hot cheek, “an’ then again, mebbe I hain’t. I’ve seen a little gal in a pink dress, but she may not be your sister. How big was she?”

Davie released his clutch on the wheel, to bend down and measure where Phronsie’s head would come if she stood there in the road before him, the young man leaning out to critically watch the proceeding.

“I b’lieve as sure as shootin’, that’s th’ little gal.” Then he whistled and slapped his knee again.

“Oh, Mr. Man, help me to find her!” Davie grasped the wheel once more and held on for dear life.

“Well, I can’t as long as you hang on to that ’ere wheel,” said the young man. “Now you hop in, and I’ll catch up with that young one in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Over the wheel went Davie, to sink down in a small heap on the old leather seat.

“Yes, sir—ee!” declared the young man again. “I seen her in Mis Brown’s lap as sure as shootin’. It’s lucky she’s fell in such good hands. Well, I’ll catch up with that old white plug of a horse. G’lang!” He whipped up, passing the turn in the road where Phronsie was being carried off in the high wagon on the “short cut” to the Brown house in Maybury.

CHAPTER VI
BACK TO MAMSIE

“TH’ beef’s biled ’mos’ to nothin’,” said Mrs. Brown, sticking a long iron fork into the pot of corned beef, surrounded by bubbling heaps of cabbage. She had thrown off her sunbonnet on the old sofa in the sitting-room, and hurried into the bedroom where she had deposited Phronsie, fast asleep, on the gay patched bedquilt.

“There, you sweet lamb, you!” Then she hurried out to see about the belated dinner.

“John,” she called, as she ran out to the barn, “come, dinner’s ready.”

Farmer Brown turned as he was leading the old white horse to his stall. “Is she awake?” pointing with his thumb to the house.

“No,” Mrs. Brown sped back to the kitchen.

“What’ll we do with that little gal?” the farmer’s face puckered all up with dismay as he reflected: “Nobody on th’ road knows th’ fust thing about her, an’ I s’pose her Ma’s cryin’ her eyes out.” He slouched up to the kitchen door.

“I thought you was never comin’”; his wife set the big blue platter with the corned beef and its generous fringe of cabbage on the table; then down went the dish of potatoes and the loaf of bread. “Th’ beef’s all biled to pieces,” she said, getting into her chair.

“What beats me,” said Mr. Brown, sitting down heavily, and taking up the horn-handled carving knife and fork, “is, what are we to do with her.” He pointed with carving knife to the bedroom.

“I d’no,” said his wife; “do help out that beef. It’s all biled to death,” passing her plate.

“It will eat just as good,” said the farmer, cutting off a scraggy strip, and dishing up a generous spoonful of cabbage to go with it to the waiting plate. “Well, Nancy, I’m beat to know what we’re goin’ to do with her.”

“Do stop talkin’ about her,” cried his wife. “She’s asleep now. And I’m as nervous as a witch.”

“I s’pose we might as well eat,” said the farmer, helping himself liberally. “Mebbe we can decide what to do better after we have eat.”

“I can’t think why I didn’t set that pot clear back on the stove,” said Mrs. Brown in vexation. “I might ’a’ known ’twould bile too fast when we went to Badgertown. I didn’t s’pose we’d be gone so long.”

“Well, ef we’d got home sooner we wouldn’t ’a’ come up with the little gal,” observed the farmer philosophically, while his portion of beef and cabbage was going rapidly to its last resting-place.

“What good will it do that we found her?” said his wife discontentedly. “We’ve got to give her up.”

“Well, I s’pose so,” said Mr. Brown slowly. “Hem! Ain’t I ever goin’ to have no tea?” he asked in an injured voice, looking hard across at his wife.

“Oh, mercy!” Mrs. Brown hopped out of her chair. “I don’t wonder that I forgot th’ teapot. Th’ Angel Gabriel couldn’t never remember anythin’ on sech a mornin’ as we’ve had!” She whipped her husband’s big blue cup off from the dresser, bringing it back full and steaming hot.

“I guess th’ Angel Gabriel hain’t ever had much to do with tea,” said Mr. Brown, putting in a good spoonful of brown sugar, and all the cream that would get safely into the cup; “he’s got enough to do a-blowin’ that horn o’ his’n. Well, don’t worry, Ma. Do set down an’ take it easy. Th’ little gal hain’t got to go yet.”

“But we’ve got to start after dinner about it.” Mrs. Brown played nervously with her knife and fork. Then she threw them down on her plate, jumped up and turned her back on the farmer, dinner and all.

“My soul an’ body!” cried Mr. Brown, his knife half-way to his mouth. He stopped to stare aghast at her. “You hain’t never acted like this, Nancy.”

“Well, I hain’t never had nothin’ like this to set me goin’,” said Nancy, her voice trembling. “To think that child should ’a’ sprung up to-day, an’ I’ve always wanted a little gal—”

Farmer Brown shook all over. Down fell the knife to the kitchen floor. He glared all around the big kitchen as if somehow that were to blame. Then he cleared his throat two or three times. “P’raps they’ll let us keep her, Nancy,” he managed to get out at last.

But Nancy, sobbing in her apron, was beyond the sound of comfort.

“You know as well as you set in that chair that they won’t,” she sobbed. “O dear, why did we find her—and I want a little gal so!”

“Hush!—somebody’s comin’,” warned the farmer. Round the corner of the house came two figures, and pretty soon “Rap—Rap!” on the old door.

“Set down, Nancy!” cried her husband; “for goodness sake, all Maybury will think you an’ me’s ben quarreling!”

“They couldn’t think that, John,” cried Mrs. Brown in dismay, and hurried back to the dinner table.

“When they see you a-cryin’, you can’t tell what they’d think,” said the farmer grimly, and taking his time about opening the door.

“I ain’t cryin’,” said his wife, wiping all traces of the tears from her large face, and sitting very straight in her chair, as she got her company face on.

“Oh!” Mr. Brown flung wide the big door. “How do, Hubbard.” Then his eye fell on a very small boy with big blue eyes, who was crowding up anxiously, and, not waiting to be invited, was already in the kitchen and staring around.

“You must ’xcuse him,” said Young Hubbard, “he’s lost his sister.”

The farmer’s wife jumped out of her chair, and seized the boy’s arm. “We’ve got her,” she said; “don’t look so; she’s all safe here.”

“I must take her to Mamsie,” said Davie, lifting his white face.

“Yes—yes,” said Mrs. Brown, while the old farmer and the young one stood by silently. “You come in here, an’ see for yourself how safe she is.”

Davie rushed into the bedroom and gave one bound over to the big bed. Phronsie was just getting up to the middle of it, and wiping her eyes. When she saw Davie she gave a little crow of delight. “I’m going to Mamsie,” she announced, as she threw her arms around him.

“Yes,” said Davie, staggering off with her to the kitchen.

“You’re goin’ to have your dinner first,” said the farmer’s wife in alarm. “Gracious me—th’ very idea of goin’ without a bite,” she added, bustling about for more dishes and knives and forks.

“We can’t,” said Davie, struggling along to the door. “I must get her to Mamsie.”

“Young man,” roared Farmer Brown at him. “You set down to that table. Now, Ma, dish up some hot meat an’ taters.”

“And a glass of milk,” said Mrs. Brown, hurrying into the pantry.

“I want some milk,” cried Phronsie, hungrily stretching out her arms. So before David hardly knew how, there she was sitting on the big family Bible that Mr. Brown placed on one of the chairs, before the dinner table. When she saw it was really and truly milk with a frothy top, she was quite overcome and sat looking at it.

“Drink it, little gal,” said Farmer Brown, with a hand on her yellow hair.

Phronsie laughed a pleased little gurgle, and set her small teeth on the edge of the mug, drinking as fast as she could.

“Hulloa—hold up a bit,” said the farmer, with a big hand on her arm. Phronsie’s blue eyes over the cup-edge turned on him inquiringly. “Go slower, little gal.” Mr. Brown took the mug and set it on the table. “Th’ milk will wait for you.”

“It is nice,” said Phronsie, beaming delightedly at him.

“So ’tis,” said the farmer, wiping off the milk streaks from her face. “An’ you shall have th’ rest by an’ by.”

“Shall I?” asked Phronsie, looking at the mug affectionately.

“Sure,” declared Mr. Brown.

Meantime the farmer’s wife was having a perfectly dreadful time with David, who stood impatiently off by the door, his hand on the latch.

“For mercy’s sakes!” she exclaimed, “do you set down an’ eat dinner, Jed,” to the young farmer, “an’ p’raps th’ boy will listen to reason an’ eat some too.”

“Now see here, young man,” Farmer Brown stalked over to David, as Jed Hubbard, nothing loath, slipped into his chair to tackle the corned beef and cabbage, “how d’ye s’pose you’re goin’ to git that little gal to your Ma—hey?”

“I’m going to carry her,” said David, “and we must go.” He clasped his hands and turned a pleading face up to the farmer.

“You carry her?” repeated the farmer.

“Hoh—Hoh!” he threw back his head and laughed.

“Don’t laugh at him, Pa,” begged Mrs. Brown, piling on more food to Farmer Hubbard’s plate; “he’s awful distressed,” as Davie begged, “Do let us go—Mamsie will—”

“You’re a-goin’,” Mr. Brown interrupted; “I shall take you an’ th’ leetle gal in th’ wagon, as soon as you’ve et somethin’.”

“Will you really take us to Mamsie?” cried Davie, the color coming quickly into his white cheeks.

“Sure,” promised the farmer heartily, as David flew into the chair that Mrs. Brown had dragged up to the table.

“Now get him a good plateful, Ma,” said the farmer, getting into his own chair. “Land—I hain’t worked so hard for many a day— Whew!”

But although David had a “good plateful” before him, it was impossible for him to eat to the satisfaction of the good people, as he turned anxious eyes upon Farmer Brown and then to the door.

“I don’t b’lieve he’ll swaller enough to keep a crow alive,” said Mrs. Brown in dismay.

“Pa, wouldn’t it be best to do up some vittles in a paper, an’ he can eat on the way.”

“I’ve come to the conclusion it would,” said her husband grimly.

“An’ I’ll put in some cookies for th’ little gal,” said his wife, darting into the pantry to the big stone jar.

“An’ I’ll harness up,” said Mr. Brown, going to the big door.

The young farmer looked up from his dinner. “You better take my horse, Mr. Brown,” he said.

“Kin you spare her?”

“Yes—an’ take th’ buggy too. You can have it all as easy as anything. You an’ me are such close neighbors, I can come over an’ git it to-night.”

“Now that’s real kind,” said Farmer Brown, going out.

“Th’ buggy?” repeated Mrs. Brown, coming out of the pantry with the bundle of cookies. “Well, I’m goin’, too, Jed. I don’t b’lieve there’s room for us all to set comfortable.”

Jedediah looked her all over. “’Twill be a close fit, maybe, but the wagon’s so heavy. Must you go, Mis Brown?”

“Jedediah Hubbard,” Mrs. Brown set down the cookies on the table, and looked at him hard. “I ain’t a-goin’ to give up that little gal a minute sooner’n I’ve got to,” she said decidedly. “An’ I’m goin’ to see her Ma.”

“All right, Mrs. Brown,” and Jedediah returned to his dinner.

But when the starting off arrived, there was a pretty bad time—Farmer Brown protesting there wasn’t “enough room to squeeze a cat in.” Mrs. Brown ended the matter by saying “There ain’t goin’ to be no cat,” and getting in she established herself, Phronsie on her lap, on one half of the leather seat of the top buggy.

“Where’s the boy goin’ to set?” demanded her husband, looking at her.

“I d’no about that,” said his wife, wrapping her shawl carefully around Phronsie. “Yes, you can carry the cookies, child. Men folks must look out for themselves,” she said coolly.

“It’s all very well for you to set there an’ tell me that,” said Farmer Brown in a disgruntled way, as he got in over the wheel, “but then, you’re a woman.”

“Yes, I’m a woman,” said Mrs. Brown composedly. “Oh, th’ boy can set on a stool in front. Jed, just bring out that little cricket from th’ settin’-room, will you?”

David, with the paper bag containing slices of corned beef between pieces of bread, not caring where he sat so long as he was on the way with Phronsie to Mamsie, settled down on the cricket that young Mr. Hubbard brought. Then he looked up into the young farmer’s face. “Good-by,” he said, “and thank you for bringing me here.”

“Oh, good-by, youngster,” said Jedediah, wringing a hand that tingled most of the way home. “Well, I hope to run across you again some time. If you ever lose your sister, you just call on me.”

“We aren’t ever going to lose Phronsie,” declared David, bobbing his head solemnly, as the top buggy and the young farmer’s horse moved off.

Mrs. Brown didn’t utter a word all the way to Badgertown except “How d’ye s’pose Jedediah ever found that we had the little gal?”

“Let Jed Hubbard alone for findin’ out anythin’,” said Farmer Brown. He was so occupied in gazing at Phronsie, carefully eating around the edge of each cooky before enjoying the whole of it, that the smart young horse went pretty much as he pleased. Finally Mr. Brown looked down at Davie on his cricket.

“Ain’t you ever goin’ to eat your dinner, young man?” he said. “Ef you don’t we’ll turn an’ go back again,” he added severely.

“Oh, I will—I will,” cried Davie, who had forgotten all about his dinner in his efforts to measure the distance being overcome on the way home to Mamsie. And he unrolled the paper bundle.

When it was all exposed to view, the corned beef smelt so good that he set his teeth in it, and gave a sigh of delight.

Farmer Brown winked across to his wife over Davie’s head and presently the bread, and even a cold potato well sprinkled with salt, disappeared, and only the empty paper lay in Davie’s lap.

“Throw it out in th’ road,” said Farmer Brown, well satisfied that the dinner was at last where it should be.

“Oh, no, no,” said David, holding the paper fast.

“’Tain’t no good—throw it out, boy.”

“Mamsie wouldn’t like me to throw papers in the road. It scares horses.”

“Sho—now!” Farmer Brown pushed up his cap and scratched his head. “I guess your Ma’s all right,” at last he said.

When the little brown house popped into view, David flew around on his cricket excitedly. “There ’tis—it’s there!”

“I see it,” said Farmer Brown. “Set still—we’ll be there in a minute.”

“It’s my little brown house,” cried Phronsie, trying to slip out from Mrs. Brown’s lap.

“Oh, you lamb—do wait. Little gal, we’ll take you there in a minute. Set still, child.”

“And I see Mamsie—oh, I want my Mamsie!” cried Phronsie, struggling worse than ever, her little legs flying in her efforts to be free.

David stood straight, his head knocking the buggy top. “Polly, we’re coming!” he shouted.

“Hold on—don’t you jump!” roared the farmer, catching his jacket, as Polly dashed up to the buggy and ran along by its side, the brown waves of hair flying over her face.

“Mamsie!” called Phronsie, leaning as far as she could from Mrs. Brown’s lap, “see my arm,” as Mrs. Pepper drew near, and she held it up with its bandage soaked in opodeldoc that the farmer’s wife had tied on.

“Whoa!” Farmer Brown brought the Hubbard horse up with a smart jerk. “You might as well git out here,” he said, “for I’ll never keep you two in this buggy till we git to th’ house.”

“I never can thank you,” Mother Pepper was saying, as the farmer’s wife got heavily out of the buggy, “for all your goodness.”

Mrs. Brown’s mouth worked and she tried to speak. “I wish—” she looked off to the little brown house, but she couldn’t finish what she had been composing all the way along—“you’d let me have this little gal for a while, anyway; you’ve got so many children; and I haven’t got one.” So she only kept on wobbling her lips and twisting her hands.

“Hem!” Farmer Brown cleared his throat. “I’ll come over an’ git them two,” pointing a rugged forefinger in the direction of Davie and Phronsie, “ef you’ll let ’em come over an’ pass th’ day with us some time.”

“He’s got chickies,” said Phronsie, raising her head from Mrs. Pepper’s arms.

“And pigs,” said Farmer Brown, “little uns—don’t you forgit them.”

“And dear sweet little pigs—oh, Mamsie, and I am going to scratch their backs.”

“An’,” Farmer Brown whirled around on David, “this young man’s comin’, sure! He’s a right smart boy, an’ I’ve took a fancy to him.”

“They shall go,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a bright smile. “And Phronsie will never forget you, dear Mrs. —”

“Brown,” said the farmer promptly, seeing his wife couldn’t speak.

“No, she will never forget you, dear Mrs. Brown.” Mother Pepper got hold of the big hand, twisting its mate.

The farmer’s wife clutched it. “You see I always wanted a little gal,” she whispered close to Mrs. Pepper’s ear.

Then Mother Pepper did a thing the children had never seen before. She leaned forward and kissed the large face.

“We must be goin’,” declared Farmer Brown, whipping out his big red handkerchief to blow his nose loudly. “Hem! Come, Ma.”

“Did Mamsie cry when we didn’t come home?” asked David anxiously, as they all filed off toward the little brown house.

“No. Oh, I’m so sorry you worried, Davie,” cried Polly. “You see I ran down to Deacon Blodgett’s to tell Mamsie, and Mr. Atkins saw me go by, and he called out that a Mr. Hubbard had you in that very buggy you came home in.”

“Yes, he did,” said David.

“And he said he knew you were going after Phronsie.”

“Yes, we did,” said David.

“And then he told us that a man in the store said that some folks over at Maybury—real good folks, had Phronsie in their wagon, and—”

“Yes,” said David, “they did.”

“So we knew everything was all right,” Polly ran on gayly, “and Mamsie said all we had to do was to wait patiently, and not stir Ben and Joel up where they were at work in Deacon Blodgett’s south meadow, so—”

“Polly,” cried Davie excitedly, as they ran into the little brown house, “I like that big Mr. Brown very much indeed.”

CHAPTER VII
“GOOD-BY, CHILDREN”

“I MUSTN’T cry again,” said David to himself the next morning. He stopped a minute picking up the chips, before he threw them into the old basket. “Maybe I’ll get to school some time and learn things.”

Then he threw the chips into the basket until it was full enough to empty into the wood-box behind the old stove in the kitchen.

“Mamsie,” cried Joel, rushing in at dinner-time, “’twasn’t any fun piling wood at Deacon Blodgett’s without Dave.”

“Davie can’t pile wood to-day, Joel,” said Mrs. Pepper, “he had such a hard time yesterday going after Phronsie.” She glanced over at him affectionately, as she went into the pantry for the cold potatoes to fry.

David began eagerly, “Oh, Mamsie—” then he stopped when he saw her face.

“O dear,” grumbled Joel. “It’s awful hard work piling wood without Dave. Isn’t dinner ready?” he asked, impatiently.

“It will be in a few minutes,” said Mrs. Pepper, slicing the potatoes over by the table. “See, Joey, I’m going to give you fried potatoes to-day.”

“Oh, goody!” exclaimed Joel, rushing over to the table and smacking his lips. “See, Dave, fried potatoes!”

David tried to smile as he turned off.

“And I shall fry them brown,” said Mrs. Pepper, cutting the last potato into thin strips.

“She’s going to fry ’em brown,” announced Joel in great excitement, and running over to pull David’s jacket, “real crispy brown, so they’ll crack in your teeth. Won’t you, Mamsie,—really crispy, cracksy brown,” deserting David to rush over to the table again.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, smiling at him, as she went over to the stove to set on the frying-pan. “Where’s Ben? It’s time that he was here.”

“I forgot,” said Joel, a flush spreading over his round cheeks; “Deacon Blodgett said Ben wouldn’t come home.”

Mother Pepper paused with the frying-pan in her hand. “Did Deacon Blodgett say why?”

“They’re going to take something to eat in a basket,” said Joel, beginning to look very injured, “and they wouldn’t take me. They told me to run home and tell you.”

“Oh, Joey, and you forgot a message,” said Mrs. Pepper reprovingly.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Joel, hanging his head.

“Didn’t mean to, doesn’t excuse such a thing,” said Mrs. Pepper. Then she set the frying-pan at the back of the stove and stood quite still.

“Mamsie—I didn’t,” cried Joel, running over to hide his head in her gown, “I truly didn’t,” he howled.

“No, he didn’t mean to,” echoed David, drawing near in great distress.

“I know, Davie,” said Mrs. Pepper, stroking Joel’s stubby black hair as he burrowed in her gown, “but it is a very bad thing to forget a message.”

“I won’t ever do it again,” whimpered Joel, his brown hands holding fast to her gown.

“I hope not, Joel.” Then she glanced over at the thin slices in the dish on the table. “Ben does like fried potatoes so much! That’s the reason I was going to have them to-day.”

“He can have mine,” said Joel, twitching his head away from Mother Pepper’s gown, and not looking at the potato-dish, for his mouth watered dreadfully.

“And give him mine,” said Davie, hurrying over to Mrs. Pepper.

“No, children, there is enough for all, and I will fry some for Ben at another time. Run down and see if Polly and Phronsie are coming from the store.”

“O dear, my legs are tired,” said Joel crossly, and tumbling on the kitchen floor, he waved them in the air.

“I’ll go—I’ll go,” said Davie, running to get his cap.

“No,” said Mother Pepper. “You are not to go, Davie.”

“Dave wants to go,” said Joel, rolling over to look at her with his black eyes.

“Davie is very tired since yesterday,” said Mrs. Pepper. “Get up, Joel, and go to the gate at once.”

“Polly’s always late,” grumbled Joel, getting up to his feet.

“Polly is never late,” said David stoutly. “She’s always and ever here,” and his face got very red.

“There—there, boys,” said Mrs. Pepper. “Run along, Joel.”

“Mamsie,” David ran over to her, as the big green door banged, “I’m not tired. Please let me help about things.”

“You must be tired, Davie,” Mrs. Pepper beamed affectionately at him, “and it won’t do for you to run your legs off for I depend so much on you.”

David looked down at his legs. Then he straightened up. “Do you really depend on me, Mamsie?” and the color ran all over his little cheeks.

“Indeed I do,” said Mother Pepper heartily. Then she glanced up at the clock. “Polly and Phronsie ought to be here.”

“They’re coming,” shouted Davie gleefully, and rushing to the big green door, he swung it wide. In jumped Joel, swinging the molasses jug, and after him Polly and Phronsie.

“Whoop!” screamed Joel, “isn’t dinner ready? We’re going to have fried potatoes,” he announced to Polly.

“Fried potatoes!” exclaimed Polly in astonishment. Then she ran over to the old stove. “Oh, Mamsie, fried potatoes!” wrinkling up her nose at the sizzling in the old frying-pan.

“I like it,” said Phronsie, clutching a little paper bag; “let me smell it, Polly, do!” standing on her tiptoes.

“I thought Ben was coming home to dinner, and he does so like fried potatoes,” said Mrs. Pepper in a low voice, as she turned the slices.

“Isn’t Ben coming to dinner?” asked Polly.

“No—hush, Polly!” with a glance over at Joel, coming out from the pantry where he had put the molasses jug. “Ben’s gone somewhere with Deacon Blodgett. Now hurry and get on Phronsie’s eating-apron.”

“Joel was awfully good—he took the molasses jug from me,” said Polly, tying on Phronsie’s checked eating-apron.

“I’m glad he thought to do it,” said Mother Pepper, with a smile. “Now sit down, children, the potatoes are done.”

“And Mr. Atkins gave Phronsie a whole lot of peppermints,” said Polly, when the meal was half over, and the plates were scraped clean from all trace of potato slices.

“Yes, he did,” said Phronsie, bobbing her yellow head, and taking off her gaze from the dish where the delightfully brown crackly things had been. When she had been obliged to relinquish her little paper bag, after the eating apron was on, she had insisted that it should be kept in her lap. So now she patted it lovingly.

“Oo! Peppermints!” screamed Joel. “Let’s see, Phronsie,” and he hopped out of his seat.

“No, no, Joey,” reproved Mother Pepper.

“She said peppermints,” said Joel, slipping into his chair.

“I will give you some,” said Phronsie, with another little pat on the paper bag, “and Davie too,” beaming across the table at him.

“Oh, now—give ’em now,” cried Joel, thrusting out his hand, his black eyes sparkling.

But Mother Pepper said “No,” again; that they must all wait till after dinner, and the dishes were washed up and the floor swept. Then if Phronsie wanted to divide her peppermints, why, that would be the best time of all.

So there was a merry bustle to see who would get through the part of the work that belonged to each one. And there was so much fun and laughter that any one peering in at the little brown house would really have supposed that play was going on. At last it was all done, and Mamsie, over in the corner sewing on one of the coats that Polly had brought home in the bundle, declared that everything was very nice, and that she couldn’t have done it any better herself.

“Now the peppermints,” cried Joel, running away from the sink where he had been scrubbing his hands and polishing them on the big roller towel. “Now, O goody!” He ran over to Phronsie, still clinging to her paper bag.

“Let’s all sit down on the floor,” proposed Polly. So down the whole four of them got in a ring, each one drawing a long breath of anticipation.

“I’m going to give Mamsie one first,” announced Phronsie, slowly beginning to open the paper bag.

“Let’s see how many you’ve got, Phronsie,” said Joel, putting out an impatient hand.

“Don’t, Joey,” said Polly, seizing his hand; “let Phronsie open her own bag.”

“I’ll open my bag,” hummed Phronsie, suiting the action to the word. Then she drew out a peppermint drop, a pink one.

“She’s so slow,” said Joel, impatiently. “Turn up the bag, do, Phronsie.”

“Let her do it her own way, Joey,” said Polly; “they are her peppermints and we must all wait.”

“O dear!” groaned Joel, holding his hands tightly together, his black eyes on the peppermint drops.

It took some time in this slow way for Phronsie to get them all out. She hummed in a soft little voice as she drew them forth, one by one, and laid them in Polly’s lap. There were nine—five white ones, and four pink ones.

“Aren’t there any more?” cried Joel. “Let me shake the bag—maybe there’s another one.”

But all the vigorous shaking that Joel administered couldn’t produce another peppermint drop.

“I shall give Mamsie this one,” said Phronsie, picking up one of the pink drops and running over to Mrs. Pepper’s chair. “Please open your mouth, Mamsie.”

And the pink peppermint being dropped into Mother Pepper’s mouth, Phronsie ran back in great satisfaction.

“Now me,” cried Joel, sitting back on his heels, and holding out his hands.

“Oh, Joey, Ben ought to have one saved for him,” said Polly reprovingly.

“I shall give Bensie this one,” said Phronsie, patting another pink drop.

“Ben wouldn’t care,” began Joel. Then he stopped, seeing Polly’s brown eyes.

“That’s fine,” said Polly, smiling at Phronsie. “Now I’m going to put this peppermint drop up on the table, and you shall give it to Ben when he comes in.”

“I shall give it to Bensie when he comes in,” hummed Phronsie. “And this one is for you.” She held up the third pink peppermint to Polly’s mouth.

“Oh, no, child,” said Polly, shaking her head. “You must save those other two for yourself, you know.”

“Then there won’t be any pink peppermints,” broke in Joel, awfully disappointed, “and I wanted one.”

“But Phronsie must save some for herself,” said Polly; “she just loves pink candy.”

“I will give you a pink one, Joey,” said Phronsie, beginning to look worried as she saw his face.

“No, Joel, you oughtn’t to,” said Polly.

“But I don’t want an old white one,” grumbled Joel; “mean old white one.”

“Then you’d better not take any,” said Polly coolly. “No, Phronsie, you must keep those two pink ones. Mr. Atkins would want you to.”

“Would Mr. Atkins want me to?” asked Phronsie doubtfully.

“Yes, of course,” said Polly decidedly. “Now, Davie, it’s your turn, as Joel doesn’t want any.”

“Oh, I do—I do!” screamed Joel. “I do want a peppermint, Polly Pepper.”

“All right, then give Joel a white one, Phronsie, and then one to Davie. There, now isn’t that too splendid for anything!” as the two boys began at once to crunch their peppermints.

David suddenly stopped. “You haven’t any, Polly.”

“Oh, Phronsie is going to put a white one in my mouth,” said Polly gayly, and opening her mouth very wide.

“I’m going to put one in your mouth, Polly,” laughed Phronsie. So Polly bent her head down, and in went a white peppermint drop.

“Now says I—in goes one in your own mouth, Phronsie,—a pink one,” and in it went.

There was such a crunching of peppermint drops going on that no one heard the big green door open, until Mrs. Pepper said, “Why, how do you do?” Then they all whirled around. There was Mr. Tisbett, the stage-driver, whip in hand.

Immediately he was surrounded by all the four children, Joel howling, “Oh, I know you’ve come to take us in the stage-coach,” and trying to get the whip.

“No, I hain’t, not this time. You let my whip be, Joel,” and in the midst of the clamor, he marched over to Mrs. Pepper. “I’ve come for you, ma’am.”

“For me?” exclaimed Mrs. Pepper.

“Yes’m. Ef you don’t stop, Joel Pepper, scrougin’ for my whip, I’ll—” Mr. Tisbett didn’t finish, but he looked so very fierce that they all fell back.

“Hoh!” exclaimed Joel, “I ain’t afraid of him,” and he swarmed all over the big stage-driver. “I’m going on the stage. Let me sit up in front with you, Mr. Tisbett,” he begged.

“Yes’m,” Mr. Tisbett tucked the big whip under his arm, and turned his twinkling eyes toward Mrs. Pepper. “Old Miss Babbitt has broke her hip, and—”

“O dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Pepper, dropping her work to her lap.

“Fact; fell down th’ cellar stairs; stepped on th’ cat, an’ away she went.”

“Did she kill the cat?” cried Joel, tearing off his attention from the whip.

“Land o’ Goshen! You can’t kill a cat,” declared the stage-driver; “never heard o’ such a thing in all my born days. Well, she set up a screechin’ for you, Mis Pepper.” He whirled around again to Mother Pepper’s chair.

A look of dismay spread over Mother Pepper’s face.

“She’s in an awful bad fix,” said Mr. Tisbett solemnly, “an’ there ain’t a neighbor that’ll go nigh her. An’ she keeps a-screamin’ for you,” and Mr. Tisbett leaned against the table.

“Polly, child, come here.” Mrs. Pepper was already folding up her work.

“What is it, Mamsie?” as the group made way for her, the stage-driver regarding them all with a relieved air as if responsibility of the whole affair was now off his mind.

“Do you think that you could get along without Mother for a little while?”

“For over night?” asked Polly, in an awe-struck tone.

“Yes,—can you do it, Polly? Poor old Miss Babbitt needs me; but I won’t go if you can’t manage without me.” She rested her black eyes on Polly’s flushed cheeks.

“You’ve never been away all night,” began Polly, her cheeks going very white.

“I know it,” said Mrs. Pepper, a little white line coming around her mouth. “It hasn’t been necessary before. But now, it seems as if the poor old woman needs me. And you’re a big girl, Polly, and then there’s Ben to help you. Well, what do you say, child?”

“She’s an awful cross old woman,” said Polly grudgingly, not being able to look into her mother’s face.

“That doesn’t make any difference,” said Mrs. Pepper. “She needs me.”

Polly drew her shoe back and forth across the floor, still not looking into her mother’s face.

“It shall be as you say, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper quietly. Meantime the stage-driver had drawn off into a corner, the three children surrounding him.

“O dear me!” began Polly, with a long breath and twisting her hands; then she burst out, “Mamsie, I’m awfully wicked—but I don’t want you to go.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Pepper, “then I will tell Mr. Tisbett that I cannot go,” and she began to get out of her chair.

“But supposing,” said Polly, with a little gasp, seizing her mother’s arm, “nobody had come to help you when my eyes were bad?”

“Yes, just supposing,” said Mother Pepper, sitting quite still.

“And now it’s worse, for she’s an old, old woman.”

“Yes, Polly.”

“Then,” said Polly, feeling sure she was going to cry, “I think you ought to go, Mamsie. O dear!”

“Are you quite sure, Polly child?”

“Yes-es—yes, Mamsie!” and Polly swallowed her sob. When she found that she could do that, she threw her arms around Mrs. Pepper’s neck. “Oh, Mamsie, I do want you to go—really and truly, I do, Mamsie—and I’ll take care of the children.”

“I know you will, Polly. Now that’s my brave girl,” and Mother Pepper gathered her up in her arms and held her close.

“And I’ll pack the bag,” said Polly, running off on happy feet to drag out the old carpet-bag from the closet in the bedroom.

And pretty soon the kitchen was in a great bustle, the children getting in each other’s way to help Mrs. Pepper off. And Mr. Tisbett kept saying, “Well, I never!” and slapping the big whip against his knees, making Joel drop whatever he was doing to run over at the enchanting sound. And Phronsie had to tie on Mamsie’s bonnet—and every one hurried to help her into the stage.

“Good-by,” said Mother Pepper, as all four tried to get on the step for a last kiss. “Be good, children, and obey Polly!”

“I’m going to be good,” declared Joel stoutly.

“I’ll try,” said David.

“Let me tie your bonnet again,” said Phronsie, with pleading hands.

“Oh, Phronsie, you can’t tie it again,” said Polly. “Mr. Tisbett has got to go,” as the stage-driver up on the box was cracking his whip impatiently. “You can kiss Mamsie once more.”

“I can kiss my Mamsie again,” said Phronsie, as Polly held her up.

“Good-by, children,” said Mrs. Pepper to them all, as the big stage lumbered off. But her last smile was for Polly.

CHAPTER VIII
“OLD FATHER DUBBIN”

THE four Little Peppers went in and shut the big green door.

“I want my Mamsie.” Phronsie stood still in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“So do I,” howled Joel.

Davie began, but stopped at sight of Polly’s face.

“Now see here,” cried Polly, running over to throw her arms around Phronsie, “we must all be good. We promised Mamsie, you know.”

“I want her back,” cried Joel, in a loud voice, as Phronsie wailed steadily on.

“How would you like to play ‘Old Father Dubbin’?” cried Polly, in a shaking voice. “Wouldn’t that be just too fine for anything!”

“Can we really?” cried Joel, his shouts breaking off suddenly.

“Yes,” said Polly. “Now, pet, we are going to play ‘Old Father Dubbin.’ Don’t you want to, Phronsie?”

Phronsie showed her little white teeth in a merry gurgle. “I do want to play it ever so much, Polly,” she said, smiling through her tears.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” screamed Joel, hopping about. “Come on, Dave, we’re going to play ‘Old Father Dubbin!’ We haven’t played it for ever and ever so long,” he added in an injured tone.

“Of course not,” said Polly, bustling about. “Now, boys, come and help me get ready.”

No need to tell them this, as they scampered after her.

“Old Father Dubbin” was saved, since Polly made up the game, for very special occasions like the present when it was absolutely necessary for the children to be diverted. So now the kitchen rang with the noise, and they all spun around till tired out, for of course the one idea was to keep everybody from a chance to cry.

At last Polly looked up at the old clock. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, brushing her brown hair out of her eyes. “We’ve got to stop. We can’t play all the time. Dear me! I haven’t got a bit of breath left.”

“I have,” declared Joel, “and we haven’t played more’n half of all the time. Don’t stop, Polly—don’t stop!” He came whirling up to her.

“Don’t stop,” echoed Phronsie, dancing up. “I want ‘Old Father Dubbin’ some more.”

“I very much wish,” said Davie with red cheeks, “we could play it again, Polly.”

“No,” said Polly decidedly, “it’s five o’clock, and we must all set to work now. Besides, Ben will get home soon.”

“O dear!” grumbled Joel. “What’ll we work on, Polly?”

“Well,” said Polly, “you and Davie can go and chop some kindlings for to-morrow morning.”

“We’re always chopping kindlings,” said Joel, peevishly.

“Of course,” said Polly, in a cheery voice, “because we’re always wanting them. Now go along, boys. I must sweep up, for we’ve made such a dust playing ‘Old Father Dubbin,’” and she dashed off after the broom.

“And I’m going to sweep up, too,” cried Phronsie, running over to the corner where her little broom was kept behind the wood-box.

“Come on, Dave, we’ve got to chop those old kindlings,” said Joel, gloomily, going over to the door.

“I’m going to bring in a lot,” said Davie, spreading his arms wide.

“I’m going to bring in enough for two hundred—no, five hundred mornings,” declared Joel, as they ran out to the woodshed.

“Now, Phronsie,” said Polly, when the sweeping up was all done, and the chairs placed back neatly against the wall, “I think you and I better set the supper-table. Ben will be here soon, you know.” She gave a long sigh and gazed out of the window. Oh, if Ben would only hurry and come! It was getting dark, and the hardest hour of all the day to have Mamsie away was drawing near.

“Bensie will be here soon,” hummed Phronsie, running over to help Polly lay the table cloth.

“Yes,” said Polly. “Now, that’s a good girl, Phronsie. You see—”

“I’ve got the most,” cried Joel, staggering in at the doorway, his arms full of all sorts and sizes of sticks. “Whickets! See me, Polly!”

“Oh, Joey, I don’t want to see you when you say such words,” said Polly reprovingly.

“I won’t say ’em any more. Now look—look!” Joel swelled up in front of her, and brandished his armful.

“O my!” exclaimed Polly, “what a nice lot! And Davie, too! Dear me, how you two boys do help!”

“I haven’t got so much,” said David, drawing slowly near with both arms around his kindlings.

“His sticks are better than mine,” said Joel critically, as the boys stood before Polly.

“Yes,” said Polly, her head on one side to view them the better. “I believe they are, Joel. Well, it’s a nice lot altogether, anyway. Now put them all in the wood-box.”

“Now what shall we do?” asked Joel, fidgeting about, the kindlings all dumped in the wood-box, and going over to Mother Pepper’s big calico-covered chair, his round face very sober.

“I believe,” said Polly meditatively, “we’d better light the candle—it’s growing dark.”

“Why, Polly Pepper! Light the candle!” exclaimed Joel. “Mamsie wouldn’t light it so early.”

Phronsie stopped suddenly in putting her blue and white plate on the table. “I want my Mamsie,” she said soberly. Then she sat down in a little bunch on the floor, and put her head in her lap.

“O dear me!” cried Polly in dismay. Would Ben ever come! “I wonder if you don’t all want me to tell you a story.”

“Oh!” screamed Joel and David together, “we do—we do!” running over to her.

“Well, I can’t tell a story ever in all this world while Phronsie is crying,” said Polly, at her wits’ end what to do next.

“Phronsie—stop crying!” Joel rushed over and shook her pink calico sleeve. “Polly can’t tell a story while you’re crying. She won’t stop,” he announced wrathfully.

For Phronsie kept on in a smothered little voice, “I want my Mamsie.”

“Phronsie,” Davie kneeled down on the kitchen floor beside her. “Please stop. Polly wants to tell a story. You’ll make Polly sick if you don’t stop crying.”

Up came Phronsie’s yellow head, and she wiped off the tears with one fat little hand. “Do I make you sick, Polly?” she asked, in a tone of deep concern.

“Yes, I think I shall be,” said Polly gravely, “if you don’t stop crying.”

“Then I will stop,” said Phronsie brokenly. “I don’t want you to be sick, Polly. Please don’t be.”

“Now if ever there was a good child, it’s you, Phronsie,” cried Polly, seizing her to smother the little face with kisses. “Well, come on, boys, we must sit around the fireplace, and I’ll tell you a story.”

“There isn’t any fireplace,” said Joel, as Polly led the way over to the stove.

“Well, I’m going to pretend there is,” said Polly, getting down on the floor in front of the stove, “and a splendid fire, too. My! don’t you hear the logs crackle, and isn’t this blaze perfectly beautiful!” and she spread out both hands.

“You’re always pretending there are things that ain’t there,” grumbled Joel.

“Of course,” said Polly gayly, “that’s the way to have them.”

“I think the blaze is beautiful, too,” declared Davie, throwing himself down by her side and spreading his hands.

“Well, I guess I’m going to have some of the blaze,” said Joel, in an injured tone, and he crowded in between Polly and David.

“Well now, Phronsie, put your head in my lap,” said Polly. But she turned a cold shoulder to Joel.

Joel fidgeted about. “Dave, you can sit next to Polly,” he whispered.

“That’s right,” Polly flashed him a smile over Phronsie’s yellow head.

“You may have the place,” said Davie, trying not to want it very much.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Polly, “how would it do for each of you to have the place half of the time, and I’ll tell you when to change?”

A smile ran over David’s face.

“All right,” said Joel, folding his little brown hands. “Now begin.”

“Well, now, I’m going to tell you about—” said Polly.

“Oh, the circus story!” shouted Joel wildly. “Do tell about the circus story, Polly.”

“Do you want the circus story, Davie?” asked Polly.

“Say yes, Dave. Do say yes,” said Joel, nudging him.

“Yes, I do,” said Davie in great satisfaction.

“And you’d like to hear about all the animals, Phronsie, wouldn’t you?” asked Polly, bending over the yellow head in her lap.

“Polly,” asked Phronsie, lifting her head in great excitement, “is that about the dear, sweet little monkey?”

“Yes, Pet,” said Polly, “it is.”

“Then,” said Phronsie, clapping her hands, “I should like to hear about it very much indeed. Please begin right straight off, Polly,” and she laid her head down in Polly’s lap again.

“Well, you see,” began Polly—would Ben never come!

“Don’t say, ‘you see,’” interrupted Joel impatiently; “do tell about the animals, and have a bear—no, two bears—”

“You’re always having a bear,” said Polly, with a little laugh. “Well, there were lots of bears in this circus I am going to tell you of.”

“How many?” demanded Joel.

“Oh, fifty,” said Polly recklessly.

“Whickets!” cried Joel in amazement.

“Now, Joel, I can’t tell any story if you’re going to say such naughty words.”

“I won’t—I won’t,” cried Joel in alarm at losing the story. “Were there really fifty bears, Polly?” He crowded up close to her.

“Yes,” said Polly, bobbing her brown head. “And the circus man said he was thinking of buying two more.”

“O dear me!” cried Joel, quite overcome and snuggling down against her arm. “Well, go on.”

“Well, there was a hip-hip-pot-amus,” Polly finally brought the whole out with great pride.

“Yes, yes,” said Joel.

David clasped his hands in silent rapture, and kept his gaze on the black stove that was a crackling fire on the hearth.

“And a rho-do-den-dron,” added Polly, “and—”

“What’s a rho-rho-do—what you said?” interrupted Joel, his head bobbing up again.

“Oh, a great big creature,” said Polly.

“How big?” demanded Joel.

“Oh, my goodness—I can’t ever tell how big he was,” said Polly.

“I want to know how big he was,” grumbled Joel. “So big?” he spread his arms wide.

“O dear me!” cried Polly, with a little laugh. “Why, that isn’t anywhere near as big, Joey Pepper, and he splashed into the water, and—”

“Where did he splash into the water?” cried Joel; “say, Polly, where did he?”

“Why, there was a pond next to the circus tent,” said Polly, going on wildly, her gaze on the window to see when Ben came around the corner of the little brown house.

“As big as the pond over at Cherryville?” demanded Joel.

“Yes, just as big as that,” said Polly, willing to make it any size.

“Dave,” cried Joel, poking his face over David’s shoulder, “it was just like that great big pond over at Cherryville. Only Mr. Tisbett wouldn’t let us go near it,” he said resentfully; “he wouldn’t, Polly, when he took us over on the stage. Well, go on,” and he threw himself back against Polly once more. “Make him splash, and splash, that great big thing. What was his name, Polly?”

“Rho-do-rho-do-den-dron,” said Polly, wishing she never had seen the picture in the animal book on Mrs. Blodgett’s center-table. “Well, now, it’s time for you and Davie to change places, Joel. Why!”

“Hulloa! So you’ve got a rhododendron, Polly.”

“Oh, Ben!” every one of the children jumped to their feet. Polly got to him first and threw wild arms around his neck.

“We’ve been playing ‘Old Father Dubbin’,” announced Davie.

Ben choked off what he was going to ask, “Where’s Mamsie?” If “Old Father Dubbin” had been played, something pretty bad must have happened, for Polly to rescue the little brown house from gloom with that game. “Well, now,” he said, “I suppose we’ve got to have that story finished.”

“Yes, yes, we have,” howled Joel, dancing about. “Go on, Polly, do,” and he flopped down in front of the stove and thrust out his hands. “There’s a big fire on the hearth,” he said to Ben.

“And hear the logs crackle,” said Davie, sitting down by his side and spreading his hands, too.

“Oh, I see,” said Ben gravely. “Now come on, Phronsie, and we’ll hear the rest about that wonderful rhinoceros,” and he sat down, pulling her into his lap.

“No, no, that wasn’t his name,” contradicted Joel; “’twas—oh, what was it, Polly?” and he wrinkled up his face.

“’Twas what Ben said,” Polly hung her head.

“Your name is prettier than mine, anyway, Polly,” said Ben. “Well now let’s hear the rest of the story.”

So Polly, quite happy now that Ben was actually there, ran her arm in his, and launched into such a merry account of what that rhinoceros was capable of that even Joel was satisfied and David wasn’t conscious of breathing.

A gentle pull brought Polly to suddenly. “Tell about my dear, sweet little monkey, do, Polly,” begged Phronsie.

“To be sure,—how could I forget you?” cried Polly remorsefully.

“Oh, I don’t want a monkey,” screamed Joel; “we can have him any day. Do go on about that—that—”

“See here, Joe,” Ben gave him a small pat on his back, “it’s time to rest that rhinoceros. He’s awfully big, and he gets tired easily.”

“Does he?” cried Joel.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, go on about the monkey.”

“I’m going to have my dear, sweet monkey now,” whispered Phronsie in Ben’s ear.

“Yes, I know,” Ben whispered back. “Well, go on, Polly.”

So the monkey went through all the antics that belonged to one, and a good many more that hadn’t anything to do with a monkey at all.

At last Ben looked up at the old clock. “Whew! Well, Polly Pepper, I should say it was time for supper!”

At that they all jumped up, and in the scuffle to get to the table first, Polly drew Ben aside. “Mamsie’s gone to old Miss Babbitt’s,” she whispered. “Mr. Tisbett came for her. Miss Babbitt has broken her hip.”

“Whew!” said Ben again.

“And how shall ever we get the children to bed,” said Polly, in a distressed little voice, “without Mamsie?”

Ben looked all around the old kitchen with a sober face. “Same’s you’ve done all the afternoon—keep ’em busy.”

“We can’t play ‘Old Father Dubbin’ again,” said Polly. “We must save that for next times when things are bad.”

“That’s so,” said Ben; “then it must be blind man’s buff, or puss-in-the-corner, I suppose.”

“What are you whispering about?” cried Joel, coming up curiously. “You’re always getting off into a corner and whispering things.”

“Well, that’s because we can’t talk unless we do get into a corner. You’re always poking around so, Joe,” said Ben. “Come on now, all hands to supper!”