6 of us once, my darlings, played together beneath green boughs which faded long ago, made merry in the golden summer weather, pelted each other with new fallen snow. Did the sun always shine? I can't remember a single cloud that dimmed that happy blue, a single lightning bolt or peel of thunder to daunt our bright, unfearing lives, can you? We quarreled often, but made peace as quickly, shed many tears, but laughed the while they fell, had our small woes, our childish bumps and bruises, but mother always kissed and made them well. Is it long since? It seems a moment only, yet here we are in bonnets and tailcoats, grave men of business, members of committees, our playtime ended, even baby votes. And star-eyed children, in whose innocent faces kindles the gladness which was once our own, crowd round our knees with sweet and coaxing voices, asking for stories of that old-time home. Were you once little too, they say, astonished? Did you two play? How funny! Tell us how! Almost we start, forgetful for a moment. Almost we answer, we are little now. Dear friend and lover, whom to-day we christen, forgive such brief bewilderment, thy true and kindly hand we hold, we own thee fairest, but ah, our yesterday was precious too. So darlings, take this little childish story in which some gleams of the old sunshine play, and as with careless hands you turn the pages, look back and smile, as here I smile to-day. CHAPTER ONE THE LITTLE CARS. I was sitting in the meadows one day not long ago, at a place where there was a small brook. It was a hot day, the sky was very blue, and white clouds, like great swans, went floating over it to and fro. Just opposite me was a clump of green rushes, with dark velvety spikes, and among them one single tall red cardinal flower, which was bending over the brook as if to see its own beautiful face in the water. But the cardinal did not seem to be vain. The picture was so pretty that I sat a long time enjoying it. Suddenly close to me two small voices began to talk, or to sing, for I couldn't tell exactly which it was. One voice was shrill, the other, which was a little deeper, sounded very positive and cross. They were evidently disputing about something, for they said the same words over and over again. These were the words. Katey did, Katey didn't, she did, she didn't, she did, she didn't, did, didn't. I think they must have repeated them at least a hundred times. I got up from my seat to see if I could find the speakers, and sure enough, there on one of the cattail bull rushes I spied two tiny pale green creatures. Their eyes seemed to be weak, for they both wore black goggles. They had six legs apiece, two short ones, two not so short, and two very long. These last legs had joints like the springs to buggy tops, and as I watched, they began walking up the rush, and then I saw that they moved exactly like an old-fashioned gig. In fact, if I hadn't been too big, I think I should have heard them creak as they went along. They didn't say anything so long as I was there, but the moment my back was turned, they began to quarrel again, and in the same old words, Katey did, Katey didn't, she did, she didn't. As I walked home, I felt a thinking about another Katey, a Katey I once knew, who planned to do a great many wonderful things, and in the end did none of them, but something quite different, something she didn't like at all at first, but which, on the whole, was a great deal better than any of the doings she had dreamed about. And as I thought, this little story grew in my head, and I resolved to write it down for you. I have done it, and in memory of my two little friends on the bulrush, I gave it their name. Here it is, the story of what Katey did. Katey's name was Katey Carr. She lived in the town of Burnett, which wasn't a very big town, but was growing as fast as it knew how. The house she lived in stood on the edge of the town. It was a large square house, white with green blinds, and had a porch in front, over which roses and climates made a thick bower. Four tall locus trees shaded the gravel path which led to the front gate. On one side of the house was an orchard, on the other side were woodpiles and barns and an ice house. One was a kitchen garden sloping to the south, and behind that a pasture with a brook in it and butternut trees and four cows, two red ones, a yellow one with sharp horns tipped with tin, and a dear little white one named Daisy. There were six of the car children, four girls and two boys. Katey the oldest was twelve years old, little Phil the youngest was four, and the rest fitted in between. Dr. Carr, their Papa, was a dear, kind, busy man, who was away from home all day and sometimes all night too, taking care of sick people. The children hadn't any Mama. She had died when Phil was a baby, four years before my story began. Katey could remember her pretty well. To the rest she was but a sad, sweet name spoken on Sunday and at prayer times, or when Papa was especially gentle in solemn. In place of this Mama, whom they recollected so dimly, there was Aunt Izzy, Papa's sister, who came to take care of them when Mama went away on that long journey, from which, for so many months, the little ones kept hoping she might return. Aunt Izzy was a small woman, sharp-faced and thin, rather old-looking, and very neat and particular about everything. She meant to be kind to the children, but they puzzled her much, because they were not a bit like herself when she was a child. Aunt Izzy had been a gentle, tidy little thing, who loved to sit as curly locks did, sewing long seams in the parlor, and to have her head patted by older people, and be told that she was a good girl, whereas Katey tore her dress every day, hated sewing, and didn't care a button about being called good, while Clover and Elsie shied off like restless ponies when anyone tried to pat their heads. It was very perplexing to Aunt Izzy, and she found it hard to quite forgive the children for being so unaccountable, and so little like the good boys and girls in Sunday school memoirs, who were the young people she liked best, and understood most about. Then Dr. Carr was another person who worried her. He wished to have the children hardy and bold, and encouraged climbing and rough play, in spite of the bumps and ragged clothes which resulted. In fact, there was just one half-hour of the day when Aunt Izzy was really satisfied about her charges. And that was the half-hour before breakfast, when she had made a law that they were all to sit in their little chairs and learn the Bible verse for the day. At this time she looked at them with pleased eyes. They were all so spick in span, with such nicely brushed jackets and such neatly combed hair. But the moment the bell rang her comfort was over. From that time on they were what she called not fit to be seen. The neighbors pitied her very much. They used to count the sixty stiff white pantalette legs hung out to dry every Monday morning, and say to each other what a sight of washing those children made, and what a chore it must be for poor Miss Carr to keep them so nice. But poor Miss Carr didn't think them at all nice. That was the worst of it. Clover, go upstairs and wash your hands. Dory, pick your hat off the floor and hang it on the nail. Not that nail, the third nail from the corner. These were the kind of things Aunt Izzy was saying all day long. The children minded her pretty well, but they didn't exactly love her, I fear. They called her Aunt Izzy Always, never Auntie. Boys and girls will know what that meant. I want to show you the little cars. And I don't know that I could ever have a better chance than one day when five out of the six were perched on top of the ice-house, like chickens on a roost. This ice-house was one of their favorite places. It was only a low roof set over a hole in the ground, and as it stood in the middle of the side-yard it always seemed to the children that the shortest road to every place was up one of its slopes and down the other. They also liked to mount the ridge pole, and then still keeping the sitting position to let go and scrape slowly down over the warm shingles to the ground. It was bad for their shoes and trousers, of course, but what of that? Shoes and trousers and clothes, generally, were Aunt Izzy's affair. Theirs was to slide and enjoy themselves. Clover, next in age to Katie, sat in the middle. She was a fair sweet dumpling of a girl, with thick pigtails of light brown hair, and short-sighted blue eyes, which seemed to hold tears just ready to fall from under the blue. Really, Clover was the jolliest little thing in the world, but these eyes and her soft, cooing voice always made people feel like petting her and taking her part. Once when she was very small she ran away with Katie's doll, and when Katie pursued and tried to take it from her, Clover held fast and would not let go. Dr. Carr, who wasn't attending particularly, heard nothing but the pathetic tone of Clover's voice as she said, You won't! You want dolly! And without stopping to inquire, he called out sharply, for shame, Katie, give your sister her doll at once. Which Katie, much surprised, did, while Clover purred in triumph like a satisfied kitten. Clover was sunny and sweet-tempered, a little indolent and very modest about herself, though in fact she was particularly clever in all sorts of games and extremely droll and funny in a quiet way. She loved her, and she loved everybody, especially Katie, whom she looked up to as one of the wisest people in the world. Pretty little Phil sat next on the roof to Clover, and she held him tight with her arm. Then came Elsie, a thin brown child of eight, with beautiful dark eyes and crisp short curls covering the whole of her small head. Poor little Elsie was the odd one among the cars. She didn't seem to belong exactly to either the older or the younger children. The great desire and ambition of her heart was to be allowed to go about with Katie and Clover and Cece Hall, and to know their secrets, and be permitted to put notes into the little post offices they were forever establishing in all sorts of hidden places. But they didn't want Elsie, and used to tell her to run away and play with the children, which hurt her feelings very much. When she wouldn't run away, I am sorry to say they ran away from her, which as their legs were longest it was easy to do. Poor Elsie left behind would cry bitter tears, and as she was too proud to play much with Dory and John, her principal comfort was tracking the older ones about, and discovering their mysteries, especially the post offices, which were her greatest grievance. Her eyes were bright and quick as a bird's. She would peep and peer and follow and watch till it last, in some odd unlikely place, the crotch of a tree, the middle of the asparagus bed, or perhaps on the very top step of the scuttle ladder, she spied the little paper box with its load of notes, all ending with, be sure and not let Elsie know. Then she would seize the box, and marching up to wherever the others were, would throw it down saying defiantly, There's your old post office, but feeling all the time just like crying. Poor little Elsie, in almost every big family there is one of these unmated left out children. Katie, who had the finest plans in the world for being heroic and of use, never saw, as she drifted on her heedless way, that here, in this lonely little sister, was the very chance she wanted for being a comfort to somebody who needed comfort very much. She never saw it, and Elsie's heavy heart went uncheered. Dory and Joanna sat on the two ends of the Ridgepole. Dory was six years old, a pale, pudgy boy with a rather solemn face, and smears of molasses on the sleeve of his jacket. Joanna, whom the children called John and Johnny, was a square, splendid child, a year younger than Dory. She had big, brave eyes and a wide, rosy mouth, which always looked ready to laugh. These two were great friends, though Dory seemed like a girl who had got into boys' clothes by mistake, and Johnny, like a boy who, in a fit of fun, had borrowed his sister's frock. And now, as they all sat there, chattering and giggling, the window above opened, a glad shriek was heard, and Katie's head appeared. In her hand she held a heap of stockings which she waved triumphantly. Hooray! she cried, all done, and Aunt Dizzy says we may go. Are you tired of waiting? I couldn't help it. The holes were so big and took so long. Hurry up, Clover, and get the things. Cece and I will be down in a minute. The children jumped up gladly and slid down the roof. Clover fetched a couple of baskets from the woodshed. Elsie ran for her kitten. Dory and John loaded themselves with two great faggots of green boughs. Just as they were ready, the side door banged, and Katie and Cece Hall came into the yard. I must tell you about Cece. She was a great friend of the children and lived in a house next door. The yards of the houses were only separated by a green hedge with no gate, so that Cece spent two thirds of her time at Dr. Carr's, and was exactly like one of the family. She was a neat, dapper, pink and white girl, modest and prim in manner, with light, shiny hair which always kept smooth, and slim hands which never looked dirty. How different from my poor Katie! Katie's hair was forever in a snarl. Her gowns were always catching on nails and tearing themselves, and in spite of her age and size, she was as heedless and innocent as a child of six. Katie was the longest girl that was ever seen. What she did to make herself grow so, nobody could tell. But there she was, up above Papa's ear, and half ahead taller than poor Aunt Izzy. Whenever she stopped to think about her height, she became very awkward, and felt as if she were all legs and elbows and angles and joints. Happily her head was so full of other things, of plans and schemes and fancies of all sorts, that she didn't often take time to remember how tall she was. She was a dear, loving child for all her careless habits, and made bushels of good resolutions every week of her life, only unluckily she never kept any of them. She had fits of responsibility about the other children, and longed to set them a good example, but when the chance came, she generally forgot to do so. Katie's days flew like the wind, for when she wasn't studying lessons or sewing and darning with Aunt Izzy, which she hated suddenly, there were always so many delightful schemes rioting in her brains, that all she wished for was ten pairs of hands to carry them out. These same active brains got her into perpetual scrapes. She was fond of building castles in the air, and dreaming of the time when some things she had done would make her famous, so that everybody would hear of her and want to know her. I don't think she had made up her mind what this wonderful thing was to be, but while thinking about it she often forgot to learn a lesson or to lace her boots, and then she had a bad mark or a scolding from Aunt Izzy. At such times she consoled herself with planning how, by and by, she would be beautiful and beloved and amiable as an angel. A great deal was to happen to Katie before that time came. Her eyes, which were black, were to turn blue, her nose was to lengthen and straighten, and her mouth, quite too large at the present to suit the part of a heroine, was to be made over into a sort of rosy button. Meantime, and until these charming changes should take place, Katie forgot her features as much as she could, though still, I think, the person on earth whom she envied most was that lady on the outside of tricopherous bottles with the wonderful hair which sweeps the ground. CHAPTER II The place to which the children were going was a sort of marshy thicket at the bottom of a field near the house. It wasn't a big thicket, but it looked big, because the trees and bushes grew so closely that you could not see just where it ended. In winter the ground was damp and boggy, so that nobody went there, excepting cows who don't mind getting their feet wet. But in summer the water dried away, and then it was all fresh and green and full of delightful things, wild roses and sassafras and bird's nests. Narrow, winding paths ran here and there, made by the cattle as they wandered to and fro. This place the children called paradise, and to them it seemed as wide and endless and full of adventure as any forest of fairyland. The way to paradise was through some wooden bars. Katie and Cece climbed these with a hop, skip and jump, while the smaller ones scrambled underneath. Once past the bars they were fairly in the field, and with one consent they all began to run till they reached the entrance of the wood.  It was always an exciting occasion to go to paradise for the first time after the long winter. Who knew what the fairies might not have done since any of them had been there to see? Which path shall we go in by? asked Clover at last. Suppose we vote, said Katie. I say by the pilgrim's path and the hill of difficulty. So do I, chimed in Clover, who always agreed with Katie. The path of peace is nice, suggested Cece. No, no, we want to go by Sassafras path, cried John and Dory. However, Katie, as usual, had her way. It was agreed that they should first try pilgrim's path and afterward make a thorough exploration of the whole of their little kingdom and see all that it happened since last they were there.  Oh, there's the dear rosary all safe! cried the children as they reached the top of the hill of difficulty and came upon a tall stump out of the middle of which waved a wild rose-bush butted over with fresh green leaves. This rosary was a fascinating thing to their minds.  Yes, said Katie, stroking a leaf with her fingers. It was in great danger one night last winter, but it escaped. Oh, how! Tell us about it! cried the others, for Katie's stories were famous in the family. It was Christmas Eve, continued Katie in a mysterious tone. The fairy of the rosary was quite sick.  So she made a large acorn cup full and then cuddled herself in where the wood looked so black and soft and fell asleep. In the middle of the night, when she was snoring soundly, there was a noise in the forest and a dreadful black bull with fiery eyes galloped up. He saw our poor rosy posy and opening his big mouth he was just going to bite her in two.  It was Santa Claus, of course.  He found it was, but it hurt him so that he mood again and galloped off as fast as he could into the woods. Then Santa Claus waked up the fairy and told her that if she didn't take better care of rosy posy he should put some other fairy into her place and set her to keep guard over a prickly, scratchy blackberry bush. Is there really any fairy? asked Dory, who had listened to this narrative with open mouth. Of course, answered Katie. Then bending down toward Dory she added in a voice intended to be of wonderful sweetness. I am a fairy, Dory. Psh! ah! was Dory's reply. Irrigate your aff. Pa said so. The path of peace got its name because of its darkness and coolness. High bushes almost met over it, and trees kept it shady even in the middle of the day. A sort of white flower grew there, which the children called polypods because they didn't know the real name. They stayed a long while picking bunches of these flowers, and then John and Dory had to grub up an armful of sassafras roots so that before they had fairly gone through Toadstool Avenue, Rabbit Hollow and the rest, the sun was just over their heads and it was noon. I'm getting hungry, said Dory. Oh, no, Dory, you mustn't be hungry till the bower is ready, cried the little girl's alarmed, for Dory was apt to be disconsolate if he was kept waiting for his meals. So they made haste to build the bower. It did not take long, being composed of boughs hung over skipping ropes, which were tied to the very poplar tree where their fairy lived who had recommended sassafras tea to the fairy of the rose. When it was done, they all cuddled in underneath.  I don't think there would have been room for anybody else, not even another kitten. Katie, who sat in the middle, untied and lifted the lid of the largest basket, while all the rest peeped eagerly to see what was inside. First came a great many ginger cakes. These were carefully laid on the grass to keep till wanted. Buttered biscuit came next, three apiece, with slices of cold lamb laid in between.  And Izzy had put up lunches for paradise before, you see, and knew pretty well what to expect in the way of appetite. Oh, how good everything tasted in that bower, with the fresh wind rustling the poplar leaves, sunshine and sweet wood smells about them, and birds singing overhead!  Each mouthful was a pleasure. And when the last crumb had vanished, Katie produced the second basket. And there, oh, delightful surprise, were seven little pies, molasses pies baked in saucers, each with a brown top and crisp candified edge which tasted like toffee and lemon peel and all sorts of good things mixed up together. There was a general shout. Even Demure Cece was pleased, and Dory and John kicked their heels on the ground in a tumult of joy. Seven pairs of hands were held out at once toward the basket. Seven sets of teeth went to work without a moment's delay. In an incredibly short time every vestige of the pie had disappeared and a blissful stickiness pervaded the party. What shall we do now? asked Clover, while little Phil tipped the baskets upside down as if to make sure there was nothing left that could possibly be eaten. I don't know, replied Katie dreamily. She had left her seat and was half sitting, half lying on the low crooked bower of a butternut tree which hung almost over the children's heads. Let's play where grown up, said Cece, and tell what we mean to do. Well, said Clover, you begin. What do you mean to do? I mean to have a black silk dress and pink roses in my bonnet and a white muslin longshaw, said Cece, and I mean to look exactly like Minerva Clark. I shall be very good too, as good as Mrs. Bedell, only a great deal prettier. All the young gentlemen will want me to go and ride, but I shan't notice them at all, because you know I shall always be teaching in Sunday school and visiting the poor. And some day, when I am bending over an old woman and feeding her with current jelly, a poet will come along and see me, and he'll go home and write a poem about me. concluded Cece triumphantly. Poo! said Clover. I don't think that would be nice at all. I am going to be a beautiful lady, the most beautiful lady in the world, and I am going to live in a yellow castle with yellow pillars to the portico and a square thing on top like Mr. Sawyer's. My children are going to have a playhouse up there. There's going to be a spy-glass in the window to look out of. I shall wear gold dresses and silver dresses every day and diamond rings and have white satin aprons to tie on when I am dusting or doing anything dirty. In the middle of my backyard there will be a pond full of Lubin's extracts, and whenever I want any I shall just go out and dip a bottle in. And I shan't teach Sunday schools like Cece, because I don't want to. But every Sunday I'll go and stand by the gate, and when her scholars go by on their way home, I'll put Lubin's extract on their handkerchiefs. I need to have just the same, cried Elsie, whose imagination was fired by this gorgeous vision. Only my pond will be the biggest. I shall be a great deal beautifuller too, she added. You can't, said Katie from overhead. Clover is going to be the most beautiful lady in the world. But I'll be more beautiful than the most beautiful, persisted poor little Elsie, and I'll be big too, and know everybody's secrets, and everybody'll be kind then, and never run away and hide, and there won't be any post-offices or anything disagreeable. What'll you be, Johnny? asked Clover, anxious to change the subject, for Elsie's voice was growing plaintive. But Johnny had no clear ideas as to her future. She laughed a great deal, and squeezed Dory's arm very tight. But that was all. Dory was more explicit. I mean to have turkey every day, he declared, and batter puddings, not boiled ones, you know, but little baked ones with brown, shiny tops, and a great deal of pudding sauce to eat on them. And I shall be so big, then, that nobody will say three helps is quite enough for a little boy. Oh, Dory, you pig! cried Katie, while the others screamed with laughter. Dory was much affronted. I shall just go and tell Aunt Dizzy what you called me, he said, getting up in a great pet.   I'm not sure what I'll be, replied Katie from overhead. Beautiful, of course, and good if I can, only not so good as you, Cece, because it would be nice to go and ride with the young gentlemen sometimes. And I'd like to have a large house and a splendiferous garden, and then you could all come and live with me, and we would play in the garden, and Dory should have turkey five times a day if he liked, and we'd have a machine to darn the stockings and another machine to put the bureau drawers in order, and we'd never sow or knit garters or do anything we didn't want to. That's what I'd like to be. But now I'll tell you what I mean to do. Isn't it the same thing? asked Cece. Oh, no! replied Katie, quite different, for you see I mean to do something grand. I don't know what yet, but when I'm grown up I shall find out. Poor Katie always said, when I'm grown up, forgetting how very much she had grown already. Perhaps, she went on, it will be rowing out in boats and saving people's lives like that girl in the book, or perhaps I shall go and nurse in the hospital like Miss Nightingale, or else I'll head a crusade and ride on a white horse with armour and a helmet on my head and carry a sacred flag, or if I don't do that I'll paint pictures or sing or scalp—sculp—what is it? You know, make figures in marble. Anyhow, it shall be something. And when Aunt Izzy sees it and reads about me in the newspaper she will say, the dear child, I always knew she would turn out an ornament to the family. People very often say afterwards that they always knew, concluded Katie sagaciously. Oh, Katie, how beautiful it will be! said Clover, clasping her hands. Clover believed in Katie as she did in the Bible. I don't believe the newspapers would be so silly as to print things about you, Katie Carr, put in Elsie vindictively. Yes they will, said Clover, and gave Elsie a push. By and by John and Dory trotted away on mysterious errands of their own. Wasn't Dory funny with his turkey? remarked Cece, and they all laughed again. If you won't tell, said Katie, I'll let you see Dory's journal. He kept it once for almost two weeks and then gave it up. I found the book this morning in the nursery closet. All of them promised, and Katie produced it from her pocket. It began thus. March 12. Have resolve to keep a journal. March 13. Had roast beef for dinner, and cabbage, and potato, and applesauce, and rice pudding. I do not like rice pudding when it is like ours. Charlie Slackskind is real good. Mush and syrup for tea. March 19. Forget what did. John and me saved our pie to take to school. March 21. Forget what did. Griddle cakes for breakfast. Debbie didn't fry enough. March 24. This is Sunday. Corned beef for dinner. Studied my Bible lesson, and Dissy said I was greedy. Have resolve not to think so much about things to eat. Wish I was a better boy. Nothing particular for tea. March 25. Forget what did. March 27. Forget what did. March 29. Played. March 31. Forget what did. April 1. Have decided not to keep a journal any more. Here ended the extracts, and it seemed as if only a minute had passed since they stopped laughing over them before the long shadows began to fall, and Mary came to say that all of them must come in and get ready for tea. It was dreadful to have to pick up the empty baskets and go home, feeling that the long delightful Saturday was over, and that there wouldn't be another for a week. But it was comforting to remember the paradise was always there, and that at any moment when Kate and Anne Dizzy were willing, they had only to climb a pair of bars, very easy ones, without any fear of an angel with flaming sword to stop the way, enter in and take possession of their Eden. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of what Katie did by Susan Coolidge. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Karen Savage. Chapter 3 The Day of Scrapes Mrs. Knight's school, to which Katie and Clover and CeCe went, stood quite at the other end of the town from Dr. Carr's. It was a low, one-story building, and had a yard behind it, in which the girls played at recess. Unfortunately, next door to it was Miss Miller's school, equally large and popular, and with a yard behind it also. Only a high-board fence separated the two playgrounds. Mrs. Knight was a stout, gentle woman, who moved slowly, and had a face which made you think of an amiable and well-disposed cow. Miss Miller, on the contrary, had black eyes with black corkscrew curls waving about them, and was generally brisk and snappy. A constant feud raged between the two schools, as to the respective merits of the teachers and the institution. The Knight girls, for some unknown reason, considered themselves genteel and the Miller girls vulgar, and took no pains to conceal this opinion, while the Miller girls, on the other hand, retaliated by being as aggravating as they knew how. They spent their recesses and intermissions, mostly in making faces through the knotholes in the fence, and over the top of it when they could get there, which wasn't an easy thing to do, as the fence was pretty high. The Knight girls could make faces, too, for all their gentility. Their yard had one great advantage over the other. It possessed a woodshed with a climbable roof, which commanded Miss Miller's premises, and upon this the girls used to sit in rows, turning up their noses at the next yard, and irritating the foe by jeering remarks. Knights and Millerites, the two schools called each other, and the feud raged so high that sometimes it was hardly safe for a Knight to meet a Millerite in the street, all of which, as may be imagined, was exceedingly improving both to the manners and morals of the young ladies concerned. One morning, not long after the day in Paradise, Katie was late. She could not find her things. Her algebra, as she expressed it, had gone and lost itself. Her slate was missing, and the string was off her son Bonnet. She ran about searching for these articles and banging doors till Aunt Izzy was out of patience. As for your algebra, she said, if it is that very dirty book with only one cover and scribbled all over the leaves, you will find it under the kitchen table. Philly was playing before breakfast that it was a pig. No wonder, I'm sure, for it looks good for nothing else. How you do manage to spoil your school books in this manner, Katie, I cannot imagine. It is less than a month since your father got you a new algebra, and look at it now, not fit to be carried about. I do wish you would realize what books cost. About your slate, she went on, I know nothing. But here is the Bonnet string, taking it out of her pocket. Oh, thank you, said Katie, hastily sticking it on with the pin. Katie Carr! almost screamed Mrs. Izzy. What are you about? Pinning on your Bonnet string? Mercy on me, what shiftless thing will you do next? Now stand still and don't fidget. You shan't stir till I have sewed it on properly. It wasn't easy to stand still and not fidget with Aunt Izzy fussing away and lecturing, and now and then in a moment of forgetfulness sticking her needle into one's chin. Katie bore it as well as she could, only shifting perpetually from one foot to the other, and now and then uttering a little snort like an impatient horse. The minute she was released, she flew into the kitchen, eased the algebra, and rushed like a whirlwind to the gate, where a good little clover stood patiently waiting, though already herself, and terribly afraid she should be late. We shall have to run, gasped Katie quite out of breath, and Izzy kept me. She's been so horrid. They did run as fast as they could, but time ran faster, and before they were half way to school, the town clock struck nine, and all hope was over. This vexed Katie very much, for though often late, she was always eager to be early. There, she said, stopping short, I shall just tell Aunt Izzy that it was her fault, it is too bad, and she marched into school in a very cross mood. A day begun in this manner is pretty sure to end badly, as most of us know. All the morning through, things seemed to go wrong. Katie missed twice in her grammar lesson, and lost her place in the class. Her hand shook so when she copied her composition that the writing, not good at best, turned out almost illegible, so that Mrs. Knight said it must be done all over again. This made Katie crosser than ever, and almost before she thought she had whispered to Clover, how hateful! And then, when just before recess all who had communicated were requested to stand up, her conscience gave such a twinge that she was forced to get up with the rest, and see a black mark put against her name on the list. The tears came into her eyes from vexation, and for fear the other girls would notice them, she made a bolt for the yard as soon as the bell rang, and mounted up all alone to the woodhouse roof, where she sat with her back to the school, fighting with her eyes, and trying to get her face in order before the rest should come. Miss Miller's clock was about four minutes slower than Mrs. Knight's, so the next playground was empty. It was a warm, breezy day, and as Katie sat here, suddenly a gust of wind came, and seizing her sun-bonnet, which was only half tied on, whirled it across the roof. She clutched after it as it flew, but too late. Once, twice, thrice it flapped, then it disappeared over the edge, and Katie, flying after, saw it lying a crumpled lilac heap in the very middle of the enemy's yard. This was horrible, not merely losing the bonnet, for Katie was comfortably indifferent as to what became of her clothes, but to lose it so. In another minute, the Miller girls would be out. Already she seemed to see them dancing war-dances around the unfortunate bonnet, pinning it on a pole, using it as a football, waving it over the fence, and otherwise treating it as Indians treat a captive taken in war. Was it to be endured? Never.  And with very much the feeling of a person who faces destruction rather than forfeit honour, Katie set her teeth, and sliding rapidly down the roof, seized the fence, and with one bold leap, vaulted into Miss Miller's yard. Just then the recess bell tinkled, and a little millerite who sat by the window, and who for two seconds had been dying to give the exciting information, squeaked out to the others, there's Katie Carr in our backyard! Out poured the millerite's big and little, their wrath and indignation at this daring invasion cannot be described. With a howl of fury they precipitated themselves upon Katie, but she was quick as day, and holding the rescued bonnet in her hand was already half way up the fence. There are moments when it is a fine thing to be tall. On this occasion Katie's long legs and arms served her an excellent turn. Nothing but a daddy-long legs ever climbed so fast or so wildly as she did now. In one second she had gained the top of the fence. Just as she went over a millerite seized her by the last foot, and almost dragged her boot off—almost, but not quite, thanks to the stout thread with which Anne Dizzy had sewed on the buttons. With a frantic kick Katie released herself and had the satisfaction of seeing her assailant go head over heels backward, while with a shriek of triumph and fright she herself plunged headlong into the midst of a group of knights. They were listening with open mouths to the uproar, and now stood transfixed at the astonishing spectacle of one of their number, absolutely returning a lie from the camp of the enemy. I cannot tell you what a commotion ensued. The knights were beside themselves with pride and triumph. Katie was kissed and hugged and made to tell her story over and over again, while rows of exulting girls sat on the woodhouse roof to crow over the discomfited millerites. And when later the foe rallied and began to retort over the fence, Clover, armed with a tack hammer, was lifted up in the arms of one of the tall girls to wrap the intruding knuckles as they appeared on the top. This she did with such good will that the millerites were glad to drop down again and mutter vengeance at a safe distance. All together it was a great day for the school, a day to be remembered. As time went on, Katie, what would the excitement of her adventure and of being praised and petted by the big girls, grew perfectly reckless and hardly knew what she said or did. A good many of the scholars lived too far from school to go home at noon, and were in the habit of bringing their lunches in baskets and staying all day. Katie and Clover were of this number. This noon, after the dinners were eaten, it was proposed that they should play something in the schoolroom, and Katie's unlucky star put it into her head to invent a new game which she called the Game of Rivers. It was played in the following manner. Each girl took the name of a river, and laid out for herself an appointed path through the room, winding among the desks and benches, and making a low, roaring sound to imitate the noise of water. Cece was the plat, Marianne Brooks, a tall girl, the Mississippi, Alice Blair, the Ohio, Clover, the Penobscot, and so on. They were instructed to run into each other once in a while, because, as Katie said, rivers do. As for Katie herself, she was Father Ocean, and growling horribly raged up and down the platform where Mrs. Knight usually sat. Every now and then, when the others were at the far end of the room, she would suddenly cry out, Now for a meeting of the waters, where upon all the rivers bouncing, bounding, scrambling, screaming, would turn and run toward Father Ocean, while he roared louder than all of them put together, and made short rushes up and down to represent the movement of waves on a beach. Such a noise as this beautiful game made was never heard in the town of Burnett before or since. It was like the bellowing of the bulls of Bashun, the squeaking of pigs, the cackle of turkey-cocks, and the laugh of wild hyenas all at once. And in addition, there was a great banging of furniture and scraping of many feet on an uncarpeted floor. People going by stopped and stared, children cried, an old lady asked why someone didn't run for a policeman, while the miller girls listened to the proceedings with malicious pleasure, and told everybody that it was the noise that Mrs. Knight's scholars usually made at recess. Mrs. Knight, coming back from dinner, was much amazed to see a crowd of people collected in front of her school. As she drew near the sounds reached her, and then she became really frightened, for she thought somebody was being murdered on her premises. Hurrying in she threw open the door, and there, to her dismay, was the whole room in a frightful state of confusion and uproar, chairs flung down, desks upset, inks streaming on the floor, while in the midst of the ruin the frantic rivers raced and screamed, and old Father Ocean with a face as red as fire capered like a lunatic on the platform. What does this mean? gasped poor Mrs. Knight, almost unable to speak for horror. At the sound of her voice the river stood still, Father Ocean brought his prances to an abrupt close, and slunk down from the platform. All of a sudden each girl seemed to realize what a condition the room was in, and what a horrible thing she had done. The timid ones cowered behind their desks, the bold ones tried to look unconscious, and to make matters worse, the scholars who had gone home to dinner began to return, staring at the scene of disaster and asking in whispers what had been going on. Mrs. Knight rang the bell. When the school had come to order, she had the desks and chairs picked up, while she herself brought wet cloths to sop the ink from the floor. This was done in profound silence, and the expression of Mrs. Knight's face was so direful and solemn that a fresh damp fell upon the spirits of the guilty rivers, and Father Ocean wished himself thousands of miles away. When all was in order again, and the girls had taken their seats, Mrs. Knight made a short speech. She said she never was so shocked in her life before. She had supposed that she could trust them to behave like ladies when her back was turned. The idea that they could act so disgracefully, make such an uproar and alarm people going by had never occurred to her, and she was deeply pained. It was setting a bad example to all the neighborhood by which Mrs. Knight meant the rival school, Miss Miller having just sent over a little girl with her compliments to ask if anyone was hurt, and could she do anything which was naturally aggravating. Mrs. Knight hoped they were sorry. She thought they must be, sorry and ashamed. The exercises could now go on as usual. Of course some punishment would be inflicted for the offence, but she should have to reflect before deciding what it ought to be. Meantime she wanted them all to think it over seriously, and if anyone felt that she was more to blame than the others, now was the moment to rise and confess it. Katie's heart gave a great thump, but she rose bravely. I made up the game, and I was Father Ocean. She said to the astonished Mrs. Knight, who glared at her for a minute, and then replied solemnly, Very well, Katie. Sit down. Which Katie did, feeling more ashamed than ever, but somehow relieved in her mind. There is a saving grace in truth which helps truth-tellers through the worst of their troubles, and Katie found this out now. The afternoon was long and hard. Mrs. Knight did not smile once. The lessons dragged, and Katie, after the heat and excitement of the forenoon, began to feel miserable. She had received more than one hard blow during the meetings of the waters, and had bruised herself almost without knowing it against the desks and chairs. All these places now began to ache. Her head throbbed so that she could hardly see, and a lump of something heavy seemed to be lying on her heart. When school was over Mrs. Knight rose and said, The young ladies who took part in the game this afternoon are requested to remain. All the others went away and shut the door behind them. It was a horrible moment. The girls never forgot it, or the hopeless sound of the door as the last departing scholar clapped it after her as she left. I can't begin to tell you what it was Mrs. Knight said to them. It was very affecting, and before long most of the girls began to cry. The penalty for their offence was announced to be the loss of recess for three weeks. But that wasn't half so bad as seeing Mrs. Knight so religious and afflicted as Cece told her mother afterward. One by one the sobbing sinners departed from the school room. When most of them were gone Mrs. Knight called Katie up to the platform and said a few words to her especially. She was not really severe, but Katie was too penitent and worn out to bear much, and before long she was weeping like a waterspout or like the ocean she had pretended to be.  All the way home she sobbed, faithful little clover running along by her side in great distress begging her to stop crying and trying in vain to hold up the fragments of her dress which was torn in at least a dozen places. Katie could not stop crying, and it was fortunate that Ann Dizzy happened to be out and that the only person who saw her in this piteous plight was Mary, the nurse, who doted on the children, and was always ready to help them out of their troubles. On this occasion she petted and coseted Katie exactly as if it had been Johnny or Little Phil. She took her on her lap, bathed the hot head, brushed the hair, put Arnica on the bruises, and produced a clean frog so that by tea time the poor child, except for her red eyes, looked like herself again, and Ann Dizzy didn't notice anything unusual. For a wonder Dr. Carr was at home that evening. It was always a great treat to the children when this happened, and Katie thought herself happy when after the little ones had gone to bed she got Papa to herself and told him the whole story. Papa, she said, sitting on his knee which big girl as she was she liked very much to do. What is the reason that makes some days so lucky and other days so unlucky? Now today began all wrong and everything that happened in it was wrong, and on other days I begin right and all goes right straight through. If Ann Dizzy hadn't kept me in the morning I shouldn't have lost my mark and then I shouldn't have been cross, and then perhaps I shouldn't have got in my other scrapes. But what made Ann Dizzy keep you, Katie? To sew on the string of my bonnet, Papa. But how did it happen that the string was off? Well, said Katie reluctantly, I'm afraid that was my fault for it came off on Tuesday and I didn't fasten it on. So you see, we must go back of Ann Dizzy for the beginning of this unlucky day of yours, childy. Did you ever hear the old saying about, for the one to the nail the shoe was lost? No, never, tell it to me, cried Katie, who loved stories as well as when she was three years old. So Dr. Carr repeated. For the one to the nail the shoe was lost. For the one to the shoe the horse was lost. For the one to the horse the rider was lost. For the one to the rider the battle was lost. For the one to the battle the kingdom was lost. And all for one to the horse shoe nail. Oh, Papa! exclaimed Katie, giving him a great hug as she got off his knee. I see what you mean. Who would have thought such a little speck of a thing as not sewing on my string could make a difference. But I don't believe I shall get in any more scrapes, for I shan't ever forget, for the one to the nail the shoe was lost. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of what Katie did by Susan Coolidge. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Karen Savage. Chapter 4 KICKERY But I am sorry to say that my poor, thoughtless Katie did forget, and did get into another scrape, and that no later than the very next Monday. Monday was apt to be rather a stormy day at the cars. There was the big wash to be done, and Aunt Izzy always seemed a little harder to please, and the servants a good deal crosser than on common days. But I think it was also in part the fault of the children, who after the quiet of Sunday were specially frisky and uproarious, and reddier than usual for all sorts of mischief. To Clover and Elsie, Sunday seemed to begin at Saturday's bedtime, when their hair was wet and screwed up in papers that it might curl next day. Elsies waved naturally, so Aunt Izzy didn't think it necessary to pin her papers very tight. But Clover's thick, straight locks required to be pinched hard before they would give even the least twirl, and to her, Saturday night, was one of misery.  But whichever way she placed herself, the hard knobs and the pins stuck out and hurt her. So when at last she fell asleep, it was face down, with her small nose buried in the pillow, which was not comfortable, and gave her bad dreams. In consequence of these sufferings Clover hated curls, and when she made up stories for the younger children they always commenced. The hair of the beautiful princess was as straight as a yardstick, and she never did it up in papers, never. Sunday always began with a Bible story, followed by a breakfast of baked beans, which two things were much tangled up together in Philly's head. After breakfast the children studied their Sunday school lessons, and then the big carry-all came round, and they drove to church, which was a good mile off. It was a large old-fashioned church, with galleries, and long pews with high red cushioned seats. The choir sat at the end, behind a low green curtain, which slipped from side to side on rods. When the sermon began they would draw the curtain aside and show themselves, all ready to listen, but the rest of the time they kept it shut. Katie always guessed that they must be having good times behind the green curtain, eating orange peel perhaps, or reading the Sunday school books, and she often wished she might sit up there among them. The seat in Dr. Carr's pew was so high that none of the children except Katie could touch the floor, even with the point of a toe. This made their feet go to sleep, and when they felt the queer little pinpricks which drowsy feet used to rouse themselves with, they would slide off the seat and sit on the benches to get over it. Once there, and well hidden from view, it was almost impossible not to whisper. And Izzy would frown and shake her head, but it did little good, especially as Phil and Dory were sleeping with their heads on her lap, and it took both her hands to keep them from rolling off into the bottom of the pew. When good old Dr. Stone said, Finally, my brethren, she would begin waking them up. It was hard work sometimes, but generally she succeeded, so that during the last hymn the two stood together on the seat, quite brisk and refreshed, sharing a hymn-book and making believe to sing like the older people. After church came Sunday school, which the children liked very much, and then they went home to dinner, which was always the same on Sunday, cold corned beef, baked potatoes, and rice pudding. They did not go to church in the afternoon unless they wished, but were pounced upon by Katie instead, and forced to listen to the reading of The Sunday Visitor, a religious paper of which she was the This paper was partly written, partly printed, on a large sheet of fulscap, and had at the top an ornamental device and lead pencil with Sunday Visitor in the middle of it.  The children always fidgeted when listening to this, partly I think because it aggravated them to have Katie recommending on paper as very easy the virtues which she herself found it so hard to practice in real life. Next came anecdotes about dogs and elephants and snakes taken from the natural history book, and not very interesting, because the audience knew them by heart already. A hymn or two followed, or a string of original verses, and last of all, a chapter of little Maria and her sisters, a dreadful tale in which Katie drew so much moral and made such personal allusions to the faults of the rest that it was almost more than they could bear. In fact, there had just been a nursery rebellion on the subject. You must know that for some weeks back Katie had been too lazy to prepare any fresh Sunday Visitors, and so had forced the children to sit in a row and listen to the back numbers, which she read aloud from the very beginning. Little Maria sounded much worse when taken in these large doses, and Clover and Elsie, combining for once, made up their minds to endure it no longer. So watching their chance, they carried off the whole addition and poked it into the kitchen fire, where they watched it burn with a mixture of fear and delight which it was comical to witness. They dare not confess the deed, but it was impossible not to look conscious when Katie was flying about and rummaging after her lost treasure, and she suspected them, and was very irate in consequence. The evenings of Sunday were always spent in repeating hymns to Papa and Aunt Izzy. This was fun, for they all took turns, and there was quite a scramble as to who should secure the favourites such as the West hath shut its gate of gold, and go when the morning shineth. On the whole, Sunday was a sweet and pleasant day, and the children thought so. But from its being so much quieter than other days, they always got up on Monday full of life and mischief, and ready to fizz over at any minute like champagne bottles with the wires just cut. This particular Monday was rainy, so there couldn't be any outdoor play, which was the usual vent for over-high spirits. The little ones cooped up in the nursery all afternoon had grown perfectly riotous. Philly was not quite well, and had been taking medicine. The medicine was called Elixer Pro. It was a great favourite with Aunt Izzy, who kept a bottle of it always on hand. The bottle was large and black, with a paper label tied round its neck, and the children shuddered at the sight of it. After Phil had stopped roaring and spluttering, and play had begun again, the dolls, as was only natural, were taken ill also, and so was Pickery, John's little yellow chair, which she always pretended was a doll too. She kept an old apron tied on his back, and generally took him to bed with her. Not into bed, that would have been troublesome, but close by, tied to the bed-post. Now, as she told the others, Pickery was very sick indeed. He must have some medicine, just like Philly. Give him some water, suggested Dory. No, said John decidedly. It must be black and out of a bottle, or it won't do any good. After thinking a moment, she trotted quietly across the passage into Aunt Izzy's room. Nobody was there, but John knew where the Elixer Pro was kept, in the closet on the third shelf. She pulled one of the drawers out a little, climbed up, and reached it down. The children were enchanted when she marched back, the bottle in one hand, the cork in the other, and proceeded to pour a liberal dose onto Pickery's wooden seat, which John called his lap. There, there, my poor boy, she said, patting his shoulder. I mean his arm. Swallow it down. It'll do you good. Just then Aunt Izzy came in, and to her dismay, saw a long trickle of something dark and sticky running down onto the carpet. It was Pickery's medicine, which he had refused to swallow. What is that? she asked sharply. My baby is sick, faltered John, displaying the guilty bottle. Aunt Izzy wrapped her over the head with a thimble, and told her she was a very naughty child, whereupon Johnny pouted and cried a little. Aunt Izzy wiped up the slop, taking away the Elixer, retired with it to her closet, saying that she never knew anything like it. It was always so on Mondays. Not further pranks were played in the nursery that day, I cannot pretend to tell. But late in the afternoon, a dreadful screaming was heard, and when people rushed from all parts of the house to see what was the matter, behold, the nursery door was locked, and nobody could get in. Aunt Izzy called through the key-hole to have it opened, but the roars were so loud that it was long before she could get an answer. At last Elsie, sobbing violently, explained that Dory had locked the door, and now the key wouldn't turn and they couldn't open it. Would they have to say they're always in starve? Of course you won't, you foolish child! exclaimed Aunt Izzy. Dear, dear, what on earth will come next? Stop crying, Elsie, do you hear me? You shall all be got out in a few minutes. And sure enough, the next thing came a rattling at the blinds, and there was Alexander, the hired man, standing outside on a tall ladder, and nodding his head at the children. The little ones forgot their fright. They flew to open the window, and frisked and jumped about Alexander as he climbed in and unlocked the door. It struck them as being such a fine thing to be let out this way that Dory began rather to plume himself for fastening them in. But Aunt Izzy didn't take this view of the case. She scolded them well and declared they were troublesome children who couldn't be trusted one moment out of sight, and that she was more than half sorry she had promised to go to the lecture that evening.  Oh, no, we won't, we won't!" whined the children, quite moved by this frightful picture. But bless you, ten minutes afterward they had forgotten all about it. All this time Katie had been sitting on the ledge of the bookcase in the library, pouring over a book. It was called Tassos Jerusalem Delivered. The man who wrote it was an Italian, but somebody had done the story over into English. It was rather a queer book for a little girl to take a fancy to, but somehow Katie liked it very much. It told about knights and ladies and giants and battles, and made her feel hot and cold by turns as she read, and as if she must rush at something and shout and strike blows. Katie was naturally fond of reading. Papa encouraged it. He kept a few books locked up, and then turned her loose in the library. She read all sorts of things—travels and sermons and old magazines. Nothing was so dull that she couldn't get through with it. Anything really interesting absorbed her so that she never knew what was going on about her. The little girls to whose houses she went visiting had found this out, and always hid away their storybooks when she was expected to tea. If they didn't do this, she was sure to pick one up and plunge in, and then it was no use to call her or tug at her dress, for she neither saw nor heard anything more till it was time to go home. This afternoon she read the Jerusalem till it was too dark to see any more. On her way upstairs she met Aunt Izzy with Bonnet and Shalom. Where have you been? she said. I have been calling you for the last half hour. I didn't hear you, ma'am. But where were you? persisted, Miss Izzy. In the library, reading, replied Katie. Her aunt gave a sort of sniff, but she knew Katie's ways and said no more. I am going out to drink tea with Mrs. Hall and attend the evening lecture, she went on. Be sure that Clover gets her lesson, and if C.C. comes over as usual you must send her home early. All of you must be in bed by nine. Yes, said Katie. But I fear she was not attending much, but thinking, in her secret soul, how jolly it was to have Aunt Izzy go out for once. Miss Carr was very faithful to her duties. She seldom left the children even for an evening, so whenever she did they felt a certain sense of novelty and freedom, which was dangerous as well as pleasant. Still I am sure that on this occasion Katie meant no mischief. Like all excitable people she seldom did mean to do wrong. She just did it when it came into her head. Supper passed off successfully, and all might have gone well. Had it not been that after the lessons were learned and C.C. had come in, they fell to talking about kickery. Kickery was a game which had been very popular with them a year before. They had invented it themselves, and chosen for it this queer name out of an old fairy story. It was a sort of mixture of blind bands bluff and tag, only instead of any one's eyes being bandaged, they all played in the dark. One of the children would stay out in the hall, which was dimly lighted from the stairs, while the others hid themselves in the nursery. When they were all hidden, they would call out kickery as a signal for the one in the hall to come in and find them. Of course, coming from the light, he could see nothing, while the others could see only dimly. It was very exciting to stand crouching up in a corner, and watch the dark figure stumbling about and feeling to right and left, while every now and then somebody, just escaping his clutches, would slip past and gain the hall, which was freedom-castle, with a joyful shout of kickery, kickery, kickery, key! Whoever was caught had to take the place of the catcher. For a long time this game was the delight of the car-children, but so many scratches and black and blue spots came of it, and so many of the nursery things were thrown down and broken, that at last Aunt Izzy issued an order that it should not be played any more. This was almost a year since, but talking of it now put it into their heads to want to try it again. After all, we didn't promise, said Cece. Nope, and Papa never said a word about our not playing it, added Katie, to whom Papa was authority and must always be minded, while Aunt Izzy might now and then be defied. So they all went upstairs. Dory and John, though half undressed, were allowed to join the game. Philly was fast asleep in another room. It was certainly splendid fun. Once Clover climbed up on the mantelpiece and sat there, and when Katie, who was the finder, groped about a little more wildly than usual, she caught hold of Clover's foot and couldn't imagine where it came from. Dory got a hard knock and cried, and at another time Katie's dress caught on the bureau handle and was frightfully torn. But these were too much affairs of every day to interfere in the least with the pleasures of kickery. The fun and frolic seemed to grow greater the longer they played. In the excitement, time went on much faster than any of them dreamed. Suddenly in the midst of the noise came a sound. A sharp, distinct slam of the carry-all door at the side entrance. And Izzy had returned from her lecture. The dismay and confusion of that moment. Sisi slipped downstairs like an eel and fled on the wings of fear along the path which led to her home. Mrs. Hall, as she bade Aunt Izzy good night and shut Dr. Carr's front door behind her with a bang, might have been struck with the singular fact that a distant bang came from her own front door, like a sort of echo. But she was not a suspicious woman. And when she went upstairs there were Sisi's clothes neatly folded on a chair, and Sisi herself in bed fast asleep, only with a little more color than usual in her cheeks. Meantime, Aunt Izzy was on her way upstairs, and such a panic as prevailed in the nursery. Katie felt it, and basely scuttled off to her own room where she went to bed with all possible speed. But the others found it much harder to go to bed, there was so many of them all getting into each other's way, and with no lamp to see by. Dory and John popped under the clothes half undressed, Elsie disappeared, and Clover, too late for either, and hearing Aunt Izzy's step in the hall, did this horrible thing, fell on her knees with her face buried in a chair, and began to say her prayers very hard indeed. Aunt Izzy, coming in with a candle in her hand, stood in the doorway, astonished at the spectacle. She sat down and waited for Clover to get through, while Clover, on her part, didn't dare to get through, but went on repeating, Now I lay me over and over again in a sort of despair. At last Aunt Izzy said very grimly, That will do Clover, you can get up. And Clover rose, feeling like a culprit, which she was, for it was much naughtier to pretend to be praying than to disobey Aunt Izzy and be out of bed after ten o'clock, though I think Clover hardly understood this then. Aunt Izzy had once began to undress her, and while doing so asked so many questions that before long she had got at the truth of the whole matter. She gave Clover a sharp scolding, and leaving her to wash her tearful face, she went to the bed where John and Dory lay, fast asleep, and snoring as conspicuously as they knew how. Something strange in the appearance of the bed made her look more closely. She lifted the clothes, and there sure enough they were, half dressed, and with their school boots on. Such a shake as Aunt Izzy gave the little scamps at this discovery would have roused a couple of dormice. Much against their will, John and Dory were forced to wake up and be slapped and scolded and made ready for bed, Aunt Izzy's standing over them all the while like a dragon. She had just tucked them warmly in when for the first time she missed Elsie.  In bed, said Clover meekly. In bed! repeated Aunt Izzy, much amazed. Then stooping down she gave a vigorous pull. The trundle-bed came into view, and sure enough there was Elsie, in full dress, shoes, and all, but so fast asleep that not all Aunt Izzy's shakes and pinches and calls were able to rouse her. Her clothes were taken off, her boots unlaced, her nightgown put on, but through it all Elsie slept, and she was the only one of the children who did not get the scolding she deserved that dreadful night. Katie did not even pretend to be asleep when Aunt Izzy went to her room. Her tardy conscience had waked up, and she was lying in bed, very miserable at having drawn the others into a scrape as well as herself, and at the failure of her last set of resolutions about setting an example to the younger ones. So unhappy was she that Aunt Izzy's severe words were almost a relief, and though she cried herself to sleep, it was rather from the burden of her own thoughts than because she had been scolded.  He reminded her of the time when her mama had died, and of how she said, Katie must be a mama to the little ones when she grows up. And he asked her if she didn't think the time was come for beginning to take this dear place towards the children. Poor Katie! She sobbed as if her heart would break at this, and though she made no promises, I think she was never quite so thoughtless again after that day. As for the rest, Papa called them together and made them distinctly understand that kickery was never to be played any more. It was so seldom that Papa forbade any games, however boisterous, that this order really made an impression on the unruly brood, and they never have played kickery again from that day to this.  Miss Pettingill was sitting in the little room in the back building, which she always had when she came to the cars, for a week's mending and making over. She was the dearest, funniest old woman who ever went out sewing by the day. Her face was round, and somehow made you think of a very nice baked apple it was so criss-crossed and lined by a thousand good-natured puckers. She was small and wiry, and wore caps and a false front, which was just the colour of a dusty Newfoundland dog's back. Her eyes were dim, and she used spectacles, but for all that she was an excellent worker. Everyone liked Miss Pettingill, though Aunt Izzy did once say that her tongue was hung in the middle. Aunt Izzy made this remark when she was in a temper, and was by no means prepared to have Phil walk up at once and request Miss Pettingill to stick it out, which she obligingly did, while the rest of the children crowded to look. They couldn't see that it was different from other tongues, but Philly persisted in finding something curious about it. There must be, you know, since it was hung in that queer way. Wherever Miss Pettingill went all sorts of treasures went with her. The children liked to have her come, for it was as good as a fairy-story or the circus to see her things unpacked. Miss Pettingill was very much afraid of burglars. She lay awake half the night listening for them, and nothing on earth would have persuaded her to go anywhere, leaving behind what she called her plate. This stately word meant six old teaspoons, very thin and bright and sharp, and a butter knife, whose handle set forth that it was a testimonial of gratitude for saving the life of Ethereal Jobson, aged seven, on the occasion of his being attacked with Quincy sore throat. Miss Pettingill was very proud of her knife. It and the spoons travelled about in the little basket which hung on her arm, and was never allowed to be out of her sight, even when the family she was sewing for were the honestest people in the world. Then beside the plate-basket Miss Pettingill never stirred without Tom, her tortoise-shell cat. Tom was a beauty and knew his power. He ruled Miss Pettingill with a rod of iron, and always sat in the rocking-chair when there was one. It was no matter where she sat, Miss Pettingill told people, but Tom was delicate and must be made comfortable. A big family Bible always came, too, and a special red merino pin-cushion and some shade-pictures of old Mr. and Mrs. Pettingill and Peter Pettingill, who was drowned at sea, and photographs of Mrs. Porter, who used to be Marcia Pettingill, and Mrs. Porter's husband, and all the Porter children. Many little boxes and jars came also, and a long row of files and bottles, filled with homemade physics and herb teas. Miss Pettingill could not have slept without having them beside her, for, as she said, how did she know that she might not be took sudden with something and die for want of a little ginger-balsam or penny-royal? The car-children always made so much noise, that it required something unusual to make Miss Pettingill drop her work, as she did now, and fly to the window. In fact, there was a tremendous hubbub, her eyes from Dory, stamping of feet at a great outcry of shrill, glad voices. Looking down, Miss Pettingill saw the whole six—no, seven, for Cece was there, too—stream out of the Woodhouse door, which wasn't a door, but only a tall, open arch, and rushed noisily across the yard. Katie was at the head, bearing a large, black bottle without any cork in it, while the others carried in each hand what seemed to be a cookie. Catherine Carr—Catherine! screamed Miss Pettingill, tapping loudly on the glass. Don't you see that it's raining?  But nobody heard her, and the children vanished into the shed, where nothing could be seen but a distant flapping of pantalettes and frilled trousers, going up what seemed to be a ladder, farther back in the shed. So, with a dissatisfied cluck, Miss Pettingill drew back her head, perched the spectacles on her nose, and went to work again on Katie's plaid alpaca, which had two immense zigzag rents across the middle of the front breadth. Katie's frocks, strange to say, always tore exactly in that place. If Miss Pettingill's eyes could have reached a little farther, they would have seen that it wasn't a ladder up which the children were climbing, but a tall wooden post, with spikes driven into it about a foot apart. It required quite a stride to get from one spike to the other. In fact, the littler ones couldn't have managed it at all, had it not been for clover and sissy boosting very hard from below, while Katie, making a long arm, clawed from above. At last they were all safely up, and in the delightful retreat which I am about to describe. There was even a low, dark loft without any windows, and with only a very little light coming in through the square hole in the floor to which the spiky post led. There was a strong smell of corn cobs, though the corn had been taken away, a great deal of dust and spider-web in the corners, and some wet spots on the boards, for the roof always leaked a little in rainy weather. This was the place which for some reason I have never been able to find out, the car children preferred to any other on rainy Saturdays, when they could not play outdoors. Aunt Izzy was as much puzzled at this fancy as I am. When she was young, a vague, far off time which none of her nieces and nephews believed in much, she had never had any of these queer notions about getting off into holes and corners and pokeaway places. Aunt Izzy would gladly have forbidden them to go to the loft, but Dr. Carr had given his permission, so all she could do was to invent stories about children who had broken their bones in various dreadful ways by climbing posts and ladders. But these stories made no impression on any of the children except Little Phil, and the self-willed brood kept on their way and climbed their spiked post as often as they liked. What's in the bottle? demanded Dory the minute he was fairly landed in the loft. Don't be greedy, replied Katie severely. You will know when the time comes. It is something delicious I can assure you. Now she went on, having thus quenched Dory. All of you had better give me your cookies to put away. If you don't, they'll be sure to be eaten up before the feast, and then you know there wouldn't be anything to make a feast of. So all of them handed over their cookies. Dory, who had begun on his as he came up the latter, was a little unwilling, but he was too much in the habit of minding Katie to dare to disobey. The big bottle was set in a corner, and a stack of cookies built up around it. That's right, proceeded Katie, who as oldest and biggest always took the lead in their plays. Now, if we're fixed and ready to begin, the feet, Katie pronounced at feet, can commence. The opening exercise will be A Tragedy of the Alhambra by Miss Hall. No, cried Clover, first the blue wizard, or Adwitha of the Hebrides, you know, Katie? Didn't I tell you, said Katie, a dreadful accident has happened to that. Oh, what! cried all the rest, for Adwitha was rather a favourite with the family. It was one of the many serial stories which Katie was forever writing, and was about a lady, a knight, a blue wizard, and a poodle named Bop. It had been going on so many months now that everybody had forgotten the beginning, and nobody had any particular hope of living to hear the end, but still the news of its untimely fate was a shock. I'll tell you, said Katie. Old Judge Kirby called this morning to see Ann Dizzy. I was studying in the little room, but I saw him come in, and pull out the big chair and sit down, and I almost screamed out, Don't! Why? cried the children. Don't you see? I had stuffed Adwitha down between the back and the seat. It was a beautiful hiding place, for the seat goes back ever so far. But Adwitha was such a fat bundle, and Old Judge Kirby takes up so much room that I was afraid there would be trouble. And sure enough, he had hardly dropped down before there was a great crackling of paper, and he jumped up again and called out, Bless me! What is that? And he began poking and poking, and just as he had poked out the whole bundle, and was putting on his spectacles to see what it was, Ann Dizzy came in. Well, what next? cried the children, immensely tickled. Oh! continued Katie, Ann Dizzy put on her glasses too, and screwed up her eyes, you know the way she does, and she and the Judge read a little bit of it, that part at the first, you remember, where Bop steals the blue pills and the wizard tries to throw him into the sea. You can't think how funny it was to hear Ann Dizzy reading Adwitha out loud. And Katie went into convulsions at the recollection, where she got to, Oh, Bop! My angel Bop! I just rolled under the table and stuffed the table-cover in my mouth to keep from screaming right out. By and by I heard her call Debbie, and give her the papers and say, Here is a massive trash which I wish you to put at once into the kitchen fire. And she told me afterward that she thought I would be in an insane asylum before I was twenty. It was too bad, and did Katie half laughing and half crying, to burn up the new chapter and all. But there's one good thing, she didn't find the fairy of the dry goods-box, that was stuffed farther back in the seat. And now, continued the mistress of ceremonies, we will begin. Miss Hall will please rise. Miss Hall, much flustered at her fine name, got up with very red cheeks. It was once upon a time, she read, Moonlight lay on the halls of the Alhambra, and the night, striding impatiently down the passage, thought she would never come. Who, the moon? asked Clover. Now, of course not, replied Cece, a lady he was in love with. The next verse is going to tell about her only you interrupted. She wore a turban of silver with a jeweled crescent. As she stole down the corregidor, the beams struck it, and it glittered like stars. So you are come, Zuleika. Yes, my lord. Just then a sound as of steel smote upon the ear, and Zuleika's male-clad father rushed in. He drew his sword, so did the other. A moment more, and they both lay dead and stiff in the beams of the moon. Zuleika gave a loud shriek and threw herself upon their bodies. She was dead too. And so ends the tragedy of the Alhambra. That's lovely, said Katie, drawing a long breath, only very sad. What beautiful stories you do, right Cece, but I wish you wouldn't always kill the people. Why couldn't the night have killed the father and—no, I suppose Zuleika wouldn't have married him then? Well, the father might have—oh, bother, why must anybody be killed anyhow? Why not have them fall on each other's necks and make up? Why, Katie, cried Cece, it wouldn't have been a tragedy then. You know the name was a tragedy of the Alhambra. Oh, well, said Katie hurriedly, for Cece's lips were beginning to pout, and her fair pinkish face to redden as if she were about to cry. Perhaps it was prettier to have them all die, only I thought for a change, you know. What a lovely word that was. Corregidor. What does it mean? I don't know, replied Cece, quite consoled. It was in the conquest of Grenada, something to walk over, I believe. The next, went on Katie consulting her paper, is Yap, a simple poem by Clover Carr. All the children giggled, but Clover got up composedly and recited the following verses. Did you ever know Yap, the best little dog who airs out on a lap or barked at a frog? His eyes were like beads, his tail like a mop, and it wiggled as if it never would stop. His hair was like silk of the glossiest sheen, he always ate milk, and once the cold cream, off the nursery bureau, that line is too long, it made him quite ill, so endeth my song. For Yap he died just two months ago, and we oughtn't to sing at a funeral, you know. The poem met with immense applause. All the children laughed and shouted and clapped, till the loft rang again. But Clover kept her face perfectly, and sat down as demure as ever, except that the little dimples came and went at the corners of her mouth. Dimples, partly natural and partly, I regret to say, the result of appointed slate-pencil, with which Clover was in the habit of deepening them every day while she studied her lessons. Now, said Katie, after the noise had subsided, now come scripture verses by Miss Elsie and Joanna Carr.   But Johnny only giggled the harder at this appeal, keeping her hands very tight across her mouth, and peeping out over her fingers. Elsie, however, was solemn as a little judge, and with great dignity began. An angel with a fiery sword came to send Adam and Eve abroad, and as they journeyed through the skies, they took one look at paradise. They thought of all the happy hours among the birds and fragrant bowers, and Eve she wept, and Adam bawled, and both together loudly squalled. Dory snickered at this, but Sedate Clover hushed him. You mustn't, she said, it's about the Bible, you know. Now, Johnny, it's your turn.  At last, with a great effort, she pulled her face straight, and speaking as fast as she possibly could, repeated in a sort of burst, Balaam's donkey saw the angel and stopped short in fear. Balaam didn't see the angel, which is very queer. After which she took refuge again behind her fingers, while Elsie went on. Elijah by the creek, he by ravens fed, took from their horny beak pieces of meat and bread. Come, Johnny, said Katie, but the incorrigible Johnny was shaking again, and all they could make out was, the bears came down, and ate, and ate! These verses were part of a grand project on which Clover and Elsie had been busy for more than a year. It was a sort of rearrangement of scripture for infant minds, and when it was finished they meant to have it published, bound and read with daguerrot types of the two authorises on the cover. The youth's poetical Bible was to be the name of it. Papa, much tickled with the scraps which he overheard, proposed instead the trundle-bed book, as having been composed principally in that spot. But Elsie and Clover were highly indignant, and would not listen to the idea for a moment. After the scripture verses came Dory's turn. He had been allowed to choose for himself, which was unlucky, as his taste was peculiar, not to say gloomy. On this occasion he had selected that cheerful hymn which begins, Hark! from the tomb's a doleful sound. And now he began to recite it in a lugubrious voice, and with great emphasis, smacking his lips as it were over such lines as, Princes, this clay shall be your bed in spite of all your towers. The older children listened with a sort of fascinated horror, rather enjoying the cold chills which ran down their backs, and huddling close together as Dory's hollow tones echoed from the dark corners of the loft. It was too much for Philly, however. At the close of the piece he was found to be in tears. I don't want to stay up here and be groaned at, he sobbed. There you bad boy! cried Katie, all the more angry because she was conscious of having enjoyed it herself. That's what you do with your horrid hymns, frightening us to death and making Phil cry. And she gave Dory a little shake. He began to whimper, and as Phil was still sobbing, and Johnny had begun to sob too, out of sympathy with the others, the feet in the loft seemed likely to come to a sad end. I'm going to tell Aunt Izzy that I don't like you, declared Dory, putting one leg through the opening in the floor. No, you aren't, said Katie, seizing him. You are going to stay because now we are going to have the feast. Do stop, Phil and Johnny, don't be a goose, but come and pass around the cookies. The word feast produced a speedy effect on the spirits of the party. Phil cheered at once, and Dory changed his mind about going. The black bottle was solemnly set in the midst, and the cookies were handed about by Johnny, who was now all smiles. The cookies had scalloped edges and caraway seeds inside, and were very nice. There were two apiece, and as the last was finished, Katie put her hand in her pocket, and amid great applause, produced the crowning addition to the repast, seven long brown sticks of cinnamon. Isn't it fun, she said? Debbie was real good nature today, and let me put my own hand into the box, so I picked out the longest sticks there were. Now, Cece, as your company, you shall have the first drink out of the bottle. The something delicious proved to be weak vinegar and water. It was quite warm, but somehow, drunk up there in the loft and out of a bottle, it tasted very nice. Besides, they didn't call it vinegar and water, of course not. Each child gave his or her swallow a different name, as if the bottle were like senior blitzes, and could pour out a dozen things at once. Clover called her share raspberry shrub. Dory christened his ginger-pop, while Cece, who was romantic, took her three sips under the name of Heidemell, which she explained was something nice made, she believed, of beeswax. The last drop gone, and the last bit of cinnamon crunched, the company came to order again, for the purpose of hearing Philly repeat his one piece, Little Drops of Water, which exciting poem he had said every Saturday as far back as they could remember. After that, Katie declared the literary part of the feet over, and they all fell to playing stagecoach, which in spite of close quarters, and an occasional bump from the roof, was such good fun that a general, oh, dear, welcomed the ringing of the T-bell. I suppose cookies and vinegar had taken away their appetites, for none of them were hungry, and Dory astonished Aunt Izzy very much, by eyeing the table in a disgusted way, and saying, only plum sweet-meats and sponge cake and hot biscuit? I don't want any supper. What ails the child, he must be sick, said Dr. Carr, but Katie explained, oh, no, Papa, it isn't that, only we've been having a feast in the loft. Did you have a good time? asked Papa, while Aunt Izzy gave a dissatisfied groan, and all the children answered at once, Splendiferous! 6 Intimate Friends Aunt Izzy, may I ask Imogen Clark to spend the day here on Saturday? cried Katie, bursting in one afternoon. Who on earth is Imogen Clark? I never heard the name before, replied her aunt. Oh, the loveliest girl! She hasn't been going to Mrs. Knight's school but a little while, but we're the greatest friends, and she's perfectly beautiful, Aunt Izzy. Her hands are just as white as snow, and no bigger than that. She's got the littlest waist of any girl in school, and she's real sweet, and so self-denying and unselfish. I don't believe she has a bit of good times at home, either. Do let me ask her.  Asked Aunt Izzy in an unpromising tone. Oh, she tells me everything. We always walk together at recess now. I know all about her, and she's just lovely. Her father used to be real rich, but they're poor now, and Imogen had to have her boots patched twice last winter. I guess she's the flower of her family. You can't think how I love her, concluded Katie sentimentally. No, I can't, said Aunt Izzy. I never could see into these sudden friendships of yours, Katie, and I'd rather you wouldn't invite this Imogen or whatever her name is till I've had a chance to ask somebody about her. Katie clasped her hands in despair. Oh, Aunt Izzy! she cried. Imogen knows that I came in to ask you, and she's standing at the gate this moment waiting to hear what you say. Please let me just this once. I shall be so dreadfully ashamed not to. Well, said Aunt Izzy, moved by the wretchedness of Katie's face. If you've asked her already, it's no use my saying no, I suppose. But recollect, Katie, this is not to happen again. I can't have you inviting girls and then coming for my leave. Your father won't be at all pleased. He's very particular about whom you make friends with. Remember how Mrs. Spencer turned out. Poor Katie. Her propensity to fall violently and love with new people was always getting her into scrapes. Ever since she began to walk and talk, Katie's intimate friends had been one of the jokes of the household. Papa once undertook to keep a list of them, but the number grew so great that he gave it up in despair. First on the list was a small Irish child named Marianne O'Reilly. Marianne lived in a street which Katie passed on her way to school. It was not Mrs. Knight's but an ABC school to which Dorian John now went. Marianne used to be always making sand pies in front of her mother's house, and Katie, who was about five years old, often stopped to help her. Over this mutual pastry they grew so intimate that Katie resolved to adopt Marianne as her own little girl and bring her up in a safe and hidden corner. She told Clover of this plan, but nobody else.  By degrees they collected a great heap of dry crusts and other refreshments, which they put safely away in the garret. They also saved the apples which were given them for two weeks and made a bed in a big empty box with cotton quilts and the doll's pillows out of the baby house. When all was ready, Katie broke the plan to her beloved Marianne and easily persuaded her to run away and take possession of this new home. We won't tell Papa and Mama until she's quite grown up, Katie said to Clover, then we'll bring her downstairs, and won't they be surprised? Don't let's call her Marianne any longer, either. It isn't pretty. We'll name her Susquihana instead, Susquihana Car.  Yism! replied Marianne very meekly. For a whole day all went on delightfully. Susquihana lived in her wooden box, ate all the apples and the freshest cookies, and was happy. The two children took turns to steal away and play with the baby, as they called Marianne, though she was a great deal bigger than Clover. But when night came on and nurse swooped on Katie and Clover and carried them off to bed, Miss O'Reilly began to think that the garret was a dreadful place. Peeping out of her box she could see black things standing in corners, which she did not recollect seeing in the daytime. They were really trunks and brooms and warming pans, but somehow in the darkness they looked different, big and awful. Poor little Marianne bore it as long as she could, but when at last a rat began to scratch in the wall close beside her, her courage gave way entirely, and she screamed at the top of her voice. What is that? said Dr. Carr, who had just come in and was on his way upstairs. It sounds as if it came from the attic, said Mrs. Carr, for this was before Mama died. Can it be that one of the children has got out of bed and wandered upstairs in her sleep? No. Katie and Clover were safe in the nursery. So Dr. Carr took a candle and went as fast as he could to the attic, where the yells were growing terrific. When he reached the top of the stairs, the cries ceased. He looked about. Nothing was to be seen at first.  There's rats in it. Who on earth are you? asked the amazed doctor. Sure, I miss Katie's and Miss Clover's baby, but I don't want to be a baby any longer. I want to go home and see my mother.  I don't think Dr. Carr ever laughed so hard in his life, as when finally he got to the bottom of the story and found that Katie and Clover had been adopting a child. But he was very kind to poor Susquehanna and carried her downstairs in his arms to the nursery. There, in a bed close to the other children, she soon forgot her troubles and fell asleep. The little sisters were much surprised when they waked up in the morning and found their baby asleep beside them. But their joy was speedily turned to tears. After breakfast, Dr. Carr carried Marianne home to her mother, who was in a great fright over her disappearance, and explained to the children that the Garrett plan must be given up. Great was the morning in the nursery, but as Marianne was allowed to come and play with them now and then, they gradually got over their grief. A few months later Mr. O'Reilly moved away from Burnett, and that was the end of Katie's first friendship. The next was even funnier.  This old woman had a very bad temper. The neighbors told horrible stories about her so that the children were afraid to pass the house. They used to turn always just before they reached it and crossed to the other side of the street. This they did so regularly that their feet had worn a path in the grass. But for some reason Katie found a great fascination in the little house. She liked to dodge about the door, always holding herself ready to turn and run in case the old woman rushed out upon her with a broomstick. One day she begged a large cabbage of Alexander and rolled it in at the door of the house. The old woman seemed to like it, and after this Katie always stopped to speak when she went by. She even got so far as to sit on the step and watch the old woman at work. There was a sort of perilous pleasure in doing this.  After this Katie took a fancy to a couple of twin sisters, daughters of a German jeweler. They were quite grown up and always wore dresses exactly alike. Hardly anyone could tell them apart. They spoke very little English, and as Katie didn't know a word of German, their intercourse was confined to smiles and to the giving of bunches of flowers which Katie used to tie up and present to them whenever they passed the gate. She was too shy to do more than just put the flowers in their hands and run away, but the twins were evidently pleased. For one day, when Clover happened to be looking out of the window, she saw them open the gate, fasten a little parcel to a bush, and walk rapidly off. Of course she called Katie at once, and the two children flew out to see what the parcel was. It held a bonnet, a beautiful doll's bonnet of blue silk, trimmed with artificial flowers, upon which was pinned a slip of paper with these words in an odd foreign hand. To the nice little girl who was so kindly to give us some flowers, you can judge whether Katie and Clover were pleased or not. This was when Katie was six years old. I can't begin to tell you how many different friends she had set up since then. There was an ashman and a steamboat, captain. There was Mrs. Sawyer's cook, a nice old woman who gave Katie lessons in cooking and taught her to make soft custard and sponge cake. There was a bonnet-maker, pretty and dressy, whom, to Aunt Izzy's great indignation, Katie persisted in calling cousin Estelle. There was a thief in the town jail, under whose window Katie used to stand, saying, I'm so sorry, poor man, and have you got any little girls like me in the most piteous way? The thief had a piece of string which he let down from the window. Katie would tie rose-buds and cherries to this string and the thief would draw them up. It was so interesting to do this that Katie felt dreadfully when they carried the man off to the state prison. Then followed a short interval of Cornelia Perim, a nice good-natured girl whose father was a fruit merchant. I am afraid Katie's liking for prunes and white grapes played apart in this intimacy. It was splendid fun to go with Cornelia to her father's big shop and have whole boxes of raisins and drums of figs opened for their amusement and be allowed to ride up and down in the elevator as much as they liked. But of all Katie's queer acquaintances, Mrs. Spencer, to whom Aunt Izzy had eluded, was the queerest. Mrs. Spencer was a mysterious lady whom nobody ever saw. Her husband was a handsome, rather bad-looking man who had come from parts unknown and rented a small house in Burnett. He didn't seem to have any particular business and was away from home a great deal. His wife was said to be an invalid, and people, when they spoke of him, shook their heads and wondered how the poor woman got on all alone in the house while her husband was absent. Of course, Katie was too young to understand these whispers or the reasons why people were not disposed to think well of Mr. Spencer. The romance of the closed door and the lady whom nobody saw interested her very much. She used to stop and stare at the windows and wonder what was going on inside, till at last it seemed as if she must know. So one day she took some flowers and Victoria, her favourite doll, and boldly marched into the Spencer's yard. She tapped at the front door but nobody answered. Then she tapped again. Still nobody answered. She dried the door. It was locked. So, shouldering Victoria, she trudged round to the back of the house. As she passed the side door, she saw that it was open a little way. She knocked for the third time, and as no one came, she went in, and passing through the little hall began to tap at all the inside doors. There seemed to be no people in the house. Katie peeped into the kitchen first. It was barren forlorn. All sorts of dishes were standing about. There was no fire in the stove. The parlor was not much better. Mr. Spencer's boots lay in the middle of the floor. There were dirty glasses on the table. On the mantelpiece was a platter with bones of meat upon it. Dust lay thick over everything, and the whole house looked as if it hadn't been lived in for at least a year. Katie tried several other doors, all of which were locked, and then she went upstairs. As she stood on the top step, grasping her flowers, and a little doubtful what to do next, a feeble voice from a bedroom called out, who is there? This was Mrs. Spencer. She was lying on her bed which was very tossed and tumbled, as if it hadn't been made up that morning. The room was as disorderly and dirty as all the rest of the house, and Mrs. Spencer's wrapper and nightcap were by no means clean. But her face was sweet, and she had beautiful curling hair which fell over the pillow. She was evidently very sick, and altogether Katie felt sorry for her than she had ever done for anybody in her life. Who are you, child? asked Mrs. Spencer. I'm Dr. Carr's little girl, answered Katie, going straight up to the bed. I came to bring you some flowers, and she laid the bouquet on the dirty sheet. Mrs. Spencer seemed to like the flowers. She took them up and smelled them for a long time without speaking. But how did you get in, she said at last? The door was open, faltered Katie, who was beginning to feel scared at her own daring, and they said you were sick, so I thought perhaps you would like me to come and see you.  After this Katie used to go every day. Sometimes Mrs. Spencer would be up and moving feebly about, but more often she was in bed, and Katie would sit beside her. The house never looked a bit better than it did that first day, but after a while Katie used to brush Mrs. Spencer's hair and wash her face with the corner of a towel. I think her visits were a comfort to the poor lady, who was very ill and lonely. Sometimes when she felt pretty well, she would tell Katie's stories about the time when she was a little girl and lived at home with her father and mother. But she never spoke of Mr. Spencer, and Katie never saw him except once, when she was so frightened that for several days she dared not go near the house. At last Cece reported that she had seen him go off in the stage with his carpet bag, so Katie ventured in again. Mrs. Spencer cried when she saw her. I thought you were never coming any more, she said. Katie was touched and flattered at having been missed, and after that she never lost a day. She always carried the prettiest flowers she could find, and if anyone gave her a specially nice peach or a bunch of grapes, she saved it for Mrs. Spencer. And Izzy was much worried at all this, but Dr. Carr would not interfere. He said it was a case where a grown people could do nothing, and if Katie was a comfort to the poor lady, he was glad. Katie was glad too, and the visits did her as much good as they did Mrs. Spencer for the intense pity she felt for the sick woman made her gentle and patient as she had never been before. One day she stopped as usual on her way home from school. She tried the side door. It was locked. The back door. It was locked too. All the blinds were shut tight. This was very puzzling.  It's no use knocking, she said. All the folks have gone away. Gone away where? asked Katie. Nobody knows, said the woman.  There's been more than one a knock in besides you since then, but Mr. Pudget he's got the key, and nobody can get in without going to him. It was too true. Mrs. Spencer was gone, and Katie never saw her again. In a few days it came out that Mr. Spencer was a very bad man, and had been making false money, counter-fitting, as grown people call it.  Aunt Izzy cried with mortification when she heard this. She said she thought it was a disgrace that Katie should have been visiting in a counter-fitters family. But Dr. Carr only laughed. He told Aunt Izzy that he didn't think that kind of crime was catching, and as for Mrs. Spencer she was much to be pitied. But Aunt Izzy could not get over her vexation, and every now and then when she was vexed she would refer to the affair, though this all happened so long ago that most people had ever gotten all about it, and Philly and John had stopped playing at putting Mr. Spencer in jail, which for a long time was one of their favourite games. Katie always felt badly when Aunt Izzy spoke unkindly of her poor sick friend. She had tears in her eyes now as she walked to the gate, and looked so very sober that Imogen Clark, who stood there waiting, clasped her hands and said, Ah! I see! Your aristocratic aunt refuses. Imogen's real name was Elizabeth. She was rather a pretty girl, with a screwed-up, sentimental mouth, shiny brown hair, and a little round curl on each of her cheeks. These curls must have been fastened on with glue or tin-tacks, one would think, for they never moved, however much she laughed or shook her head. Imogen was a bright girl, naturally, but she had read so many novels that her brain was completely turned. It was partly this which made her so attractive to Katie, who adored stories, and thought Imogen was a real heroine of romance. Oh! no, she doesn't, she replied, hardly able to keep from laughing at the idea of Aunt Izzy's being called an aristocratic relative. She says she shall be my hap— But here Katie's conscience gave a prick, and the sentence ended in mm-hmm.  I am so glad. And I, said Imogen, turning up her eyes theatrically. From this time on till the end of the week, the children talked of nothing but Imogen's visit, and the nice time they were going to have. Before breakfast on Saturday morning, Katie and Clover were at work, building a beautiful bower of asparagus spows under the trees. All the playthings were set out in order. Debbie baked them some cinnamon cakes, the kitten had a pink ribbon tied round her neck, and the dolls, including Pickery, were arrayed in their best clothes. At about half past ten, Imogen arrived. She was dressed in a light blue barrage, with low neck and short sleeves, and wore coral beads in her hair, white satin slippers, and a pair of yellow gloves. The gloves and slippers were quite dirty, and the barrage was old and darned, but the general effect was so very gorgeous that the children, who were dressed for play in gingham, frocks, and white aprons, were quite dazzled at the appearance of their guest. Oh, Imogen, you'd look just like a young lady in a story, said simple, Katie, whereupon Imogen tossed her head and rustled her skirts about more than ever. Somehow, with these fine clothes, Imogen seemed to have put on a fine manner, quite different from the one she used every day. You know some people always do when they go out visiting. You would almost have supposed that this was a different Imogen, who was kept in a box most of the time, and taken out for Sundays and grand occasions. She swam about, and diddled, and lisped, and looked at herself in the glass, and was generally grown up and airy. When Aunt Izzy spoke to her, she fluttered and behaved so queerly that Clover almost laughed. And even Katie, who could see nothing wrong in people she loved, was glad to carry her away to the playroom. Come out to the bower, she said, putting her arm around the blue berege waist. A bower, cried Imogen, how sweet! But when they reached the asparagus boughs, her face fell. Why, it hasn't any roof or pinnacles or any fountain, she said. Why, no, of course not, said Clover, staring. We made it ourselves. Oh, said Imogen. She was evidently disappointed. Katie and Clover felt mortified, but as their visitor did not care for the bower, they tried to think of something else. Let us go to the loft, they said. So they all crossed the yard together. Imogen picked her way daintily in the white satin slippers. But when she saw the spiked post, she gave a scream. Oh, not up there, darling, not up there, she cried. Never, never! Oh, do try, it's just as easy as can be, pleaded Katie, going up and down a half a dozen times in succession to show how easy it was. But Imogen wouldn't be persuaded. Do not ask me, she said effectively. My nerves would never stand such a thing, and besides, my dress. What made you wear it? said Philly, who was a plain-spoken child and given to questions.  Let's go off somewhere and play by ourselves. So one by one the small fry crept away, leaving Katie and Clover to entertain the visitor by themselves. They tried dolls, but Imogen did not care for dolls. Then they proposed to sit down in the shade and cap verses, a game they all liked. But Imogen said that though she adored poetry she never could remember any. So it ended in there going to the orchard, where Imogen ate a great many plums and early apples and really seemed to enjoy herself. But when she could eat no more, a dreadful dullness fell over the party.  The what? asked Clover. The drawing-room, repeated Imogen. Oh, she means the parlor, cried Katie. No, we don't sit there except when Aunt Izzy has company to tea. It's all dark and pokey, you know. Besides, it's so much pleasanter to be outdoors, don't you think so? Yes, sometimes, replied Imogen doubtfully. But I think it would be pleasant to go in and sit there a while now, my headaches dreadfully being out here in this horrid sun. Katie was at her wit's end to know what to do. They scarcely ever went into the parlor, which Aunt Izzy regarded as a sort of sacred place. She kept cotton petticoats over all the chairs for fear of dust, and never opened the blinds for fear of flies. The idea of children with dusty boots going in there to sit. On the other hand, Katie's natural politeness made it hard to refuse a visitor anything she asked for. And besides, it was dreadful to think that Imogen might go away and report Katie Carr isn't allowed to sit in the best room even when she has company. With a quaking heart she led the way to the parlor. She dared not open the blinds, so the room looked very dark. She could just see Imogen's figure as she sat on the sofa and clover twirling uneasily about on the piano stool. All the time she kept listening to hear if Aunt Izzy were not coming, and altogether the parlor was a dismal place to her. Not half so pleasant as the asparagus bower, where they felt perfectly safe. But Imogen, who for the first time seemed comfortable, began to talk. Her talk was about herself. Such stories she told about the things which had happened to her. All the young ladies in the ledger put together never had stranger adventures. Gradually Katie and Clover got so interested that they left their seats and crouched down close to the sofa, listening with open mouths to these stories. Katie forgot to listen for Aunt Izzy. The parlor door swung open, but she did not notice it.  Dr. Carr, stopping in the hall to glance over his newspaper, heard the high-pitched voice running on in the parlor. At first he hardly listened, then these words caught his ear. Oh, it was lovely girls, perfectly delicious!  And he leaned over me and said in a low, deep tone, Lady, I am a brigand, but I feel the enchanting power of your beauty. You are free. Dr. Carr pushed the door open a little further. Nothing was to be seen but some indistinct figures, but he heard Katie's voice in an eager tone. Oh, do go on, what happened next? Who on earth have the children got in the parlor? He asked Aunt Izzy, whom he found in the dining-room. The parlor! cried Miss Izzy wrathfully. Why, what are they there for? Then going to the door she called out, children, what are you doing in the parlor? Come out right away. I thought you were playing outdoors. Imogen had a headache, faltered Katie. The three girls came out into the hall, Clover and Katie looking scared, and even the enchanter of the brigand quite crestfallen. Oh! said Aunt Izzy grimly. I am sorry to hear that. Probably you are bilious. Would you like some camphor or anything? No, thank you, replied Imogen meekly. But afterwards she whispered to Katie, your aunt isn't very nice, I think. She's just like Jackama, that horrid old woman I told you about who lived in the brigands cave and did the cooking. I don't think you're a bit polite to tell me so, retorted Katie, very angry at this speech. Oh! never mind, dear, don't take it to heart," replied Imogen sweetly. We can't help having relations that ain't nice, you know. The visit was evidently not a success. Papa was very civil to Imogen at dinner, but he watched her closely. Katie saw a comical twinkle in his eye which she did not like. Papa had very droll eyes. They saw everything, and sometimes they seemed to talk almost as distinctly as his tongue. Katie began to feel low-spirited. She confessed afterward that she should never have got through the afternoon if she hadn't run upstairs two or three times and comforted herself by reading a little in Rosamond. Aren't you glad she's gone? whispered Clover as they stood at the gate together, watching Imogen walk down the street. Oh, Clover, how can you? said Katie. But she gave Clover a great hug, and I think in her heart she was glad. Katie, said Papa, next day. You came into the room then exactly like your new friend Miss Clark. How? I don't know what you mean," answered Katie, blushing deeply. So, said Dr. Carr, and he got up, raising his shoulders and squaring his elbows, and took a few mincing steps across the room. Katie couldn't help laughing. It was so funny and so like Imogen. Then Papa sat down again and drew her close to him. My dear, he said, you're an affectionate child, and I'm glad of it. But there is such a thing as throwing away one's affection. I didn't fancy that little girl at all yesterday. What makes you like her so much? I didn't like her so much yesterday, admitted Katie reluctantly. She's a great deal nicer than that at school sometimes. I'm glad to hear it, said her father, for I should be sorry to think that you really admired such silly manners.  It really hap— began Katie. Then she caught Papa's eye and bit her lip, for he looked very quizzical. Well, she went on laughing. I suppose it didn't really all happen. But it was ever so funny, Papa, even if it was a makeup. And Imogen's just as good-natured as can be. All the girls like her. Makeups are all very well, said Papa, as long as people don't try to make you believe they are true. When they do that, it seems to me it comes too near the edge of falsehood to be very safe or pleasant.  She may be good-natured, as you say, but I think two or three years hence she won't seem so nice to you as she does now. Give me a kiss, Chick, and run away, for there's Alexander with the buggy.