Such a strange thing had happened! One of the brand-new pillow-cases was missing! This was Saturday morning and Hulda had been changing the bedding. Marm announced her loss at the breakfast table. Hulda wasn’t certain whose pillow the slip had been missing from, but she thought it was Mr. Brent’s.

“I can’t think where it has got to,” lamented Marm. “You don’t know where it is, do you, Ned?”

Ned observed her frankly and gravely.

“I do not,” he replied. “And I don’t believe it was mine. At least, I had both last night.”

“Did you? Well, then it must have been lost this morning. Perhaps Hulda dropped it somewhere.”

“I hope she didn’t drop it on the stairs,” said Spud anxiously.

“Why?” asked Marm.

“I might slip on it,” was the sober reply. Marm wondered why the fellows laughed and had to have the joke explained to her by Hoop.

“Maybe,” The Fungus began, “the same person swiped the pillow-case that took Ned’s eight—”

But he stopped there, pretending to choke on a mouthful of baked potato. It had been agreed last evening that there was no use in troubling Marm about Ned’s loss.

“Fungus,” said Sandy in his blandest tones, “do you realize that you sometimes talk too much?”

“At least,” defended Dutch with a chuckle, “he knows when to shut up!”

“I guess,” said Ned to Sandy when they left the table, “that I’m just as curious as Marm is about where that pillow-case has got to.”

“Pshaw,” replied Sandy, “never mind about that. What bothers me is that money of yours. That’s a very funny thing, Ned. Nothing like it has ever happened in West House since I’ve been here. You don’t suppose—” he hesitated—“you don’t think that Cal knows anything about it, do you?”

“Cal? Of course not,” replied Ned emphatically. “I’d trust him anywhere.”

“Well, he doesn’t seem that sort to me, either,” said Sandy. “I like the chap. Only he did know the money was there, and then Spud is certain that he saw someone in front of your bureau; someone who wore a nightgown. And excepting Cal and Clara the rest of us all wear pajamas.”

“Oh, rot,” said Ned. “Spud was half asleep, probably. Anyway, it’s a fair guess he couldn’t tell whether the person wore a nightgown or a—a potato sack. I’ll bet he imagined the whole thing; dreamed it, probably. I wouldn’t be surprised if I came across the money somewhere, after all,” he added carelessly.

“Well, I hope you do. I’d hate to think that there was any fellow here who would steal.”

“I don’t believe it was stolen, Sandy.”

“But you said last night—”

“I know, but I’ve been thinking it over. I’m pretty careless with things, you know. I dare say I stuck it somewhere and forgot about it. We won’t say anything more about it, especially outside the house.”

“Not likely!” said Sandy.

Being Saturday there was no school. Ned had said something two or three days before about walking to Indian Head this morning and Cal had eagerly agreed to accompany him. Indian Head was a favorite resort with those who liked walking and lay five miles away across country. In Revolutionary times a block-house had stood there and had been the scene of an Indian massacre. Even yet relics were sometimes found and almost every fellow was the proud possessor of an arrow head purporting to have been dug up on the site of the old fort. Most of them had been purchased from the enterprising merchant who sold post-cards and curiosities in a little log-cabin at the foot of the hill and looked suspiciously new. Since the affair of last night Cal expected that the excursion would be dropped. But Ned sought him out after breakfast and reminded him in an off-hand way that he had agreed to go.

“Hoop and The Fungus are going, too,” he said. “We’re going to start in about ten minutes.”

“All right,” said Cal after a moment of hesitation. But when he had thought it over he changed his mind. His grievance against Ned still held good, and, he decided, he didn’t want to go walking with a fellow who secretly believed him a thief. So he told Ned he cal’lated he wouldn’t go. And Ned said “Very well” quite indifferently and the three went off about half-past nine. Cal watched them from his window and felt some regret. It was a wonderful morning and he loved to walk.

When he went downstairs the house was deserted, the rest of the inhabitants having taken themselves off toward school. Cal put his hands in his pocket and considered. It was too fine a day to stay indoors. He cal’lated he’d better follow the others over to the field and see what was going on. Perhaps there’d be a ball game, for base-ball at Oak Park was played until snow came. Then his eyes fell on the tennis court and he went in and found a racket and for a half-hour amused himself knocking balls across the net. After that he wandered to the gate and through it and started down the road past the Curtis place in the general direction of town with a half-formed idea of working back to the field by way of the cross road, which would mean a two mile stroll. But he wasn’t destined to get his walk this morning, for when he came in sight of the carriage gate beyond the white farm house he saw that the nearer post was occupied. On it, swinging her feet and munching an apple, sat the girl they had seen last evening. Cal didn’t know very much about the usages of society and wondered whether he ought to take off his cap to the young lady or speak to her. She was already aware of his approach and it wouldn’t look well to turn back, although he would have much preferred that solution of his quandary. He cal’lated he’d just say “Good morning,” and not bother about his cap. But the matter was decided for him.

“Hello,” said the girl. “Want an apple?”

“No, thanks,” answered Cal. He still had several yards to go before he would be up to her and he searched for something further to say; it was too late now for the “Good morning” he had contemplated.

“Don’t you like apples?” she asked.

“Yes, but I ain’t hungry.” He was up to her now and past and he breathed easier.

“These are Ghost apples,” said the girl. Cal stopped and turned.

“They’re wha-what?” he stammered. The girl put her head back and laughed merrily. Then,

“Ghost apples,” she repeated. “They come in pillow-cases.”

She smiled mischievously down at his alarmed and puzzled face. Cal glanced apprehensively toward the house.

“What do you know about pillow-cases?” he blurted.

“Lots! Want to know what I know?” Cal nodded.

“Pillow-cases,” said the girl, “are used to cover pillows so that they won’t get soiled.” She paused and looked at him with dancing eyes. Cal grunted.

“What else?” he demanded.

“They are also used to—to gather apples in.”

“Look here, did you see us—I mean them—I mean—”

She nodded gayly.

“You and them both,” she laughed. “What’s your name?”

“John Boland,” answered Cal. Then he added, thinking that perhaps it was the correct thing to do: “What’s yours?”

“Molly Elizabeth Curtis.” She made a little backward movement with her head. “They’re my aunts, you know. I live in New York when I’m at home but I’m going to be here all winter. Isn’t that awful?”

“Why, aren’t they good to you?”

“Of course they are, silly. But I guess it’s going to be very dull after New York. Still, I’ve had a pretty good time so far; especially the night before last.”

Cal had drawn near and now he stood and frowned at the tormentful young person on the gate post and strove to consider what course to pursue. It was evident to him that the young person wasn’t going to tell all she knew until she was quite ready to. Spud, he reflected, had called her “a fresh kid,” and he cal’lated Spud was about right. Still, she looked nice and was quite pretty, Cal decided, as girls went. She was slender and had a very clear complexion, with cheeks in which the color had a way of coming and going just as though she was able to turn it on or off at her convenience. Her hair, worn in a braid that hung to her neck and was caught up again with a blue satin ribbon, was deeply brown and her eyes were brightly blue. Not that Cal observed all these things at this time, however. About all he thought was that she was pretty for a girl and looked as though she was too jolly and nice to willingly get anyone into trouble. As for her age, he had guessed pretty near right, he told himself; she was probably thirteen; not more than fourteen at the most. Cal didn’t know much about girls and was at a loss how to handle the present situation. He was determined, however, to get at the truth before he left there. So he began by saying sternly:

“Look here, now, you’d better tell me what you know about the other night.”

“Dear me!” said Miss Molly Elizabeth Curtis, arching her eyebrows and looking fearfully alarmed.

“Because if you don’t—”

“Then what?” she asked as he hesitated.

“Well, you better had,” he ended lamely. She laughed.

“Don’t you think, Mister John Something, that you’d better be nice to me instead of making threats? Supposing—just supposing, now—I was to show Aunt Matilda what I have hidden in my trunk.”

“What—what is it?” asked Cal uneasily. Molly leaned down and whispered dramatically:

“A pillow-case marked ‘West House’ in black ink on the hem!”

“You—you wouldn’t do that, though,” said Cal, half questioningly. “You’re too nice a girl.”

The nice girl put her head back and laughed harder and merrier than ever, until Cal looked again toward the house and wondered if Miss Matilda could hear.

“You’re—you’re awfully funny,” she gasped finally. “Aren’t you?”

“I cal’late so, maybe,” answered Cal, willing to agree for the sake of diplomacy. “Is that pillow-case in a good safe place, Miss? You know if Miss Matilda got hold of it she’d show it to our principal and he’d— I don’t know what he’d do; suspend us, likely.”

“She won’t ever see it,” replied Molly reassuringly. “It’s in my trunk and my trunk’s locked and here’s the key.” She tugged at a little blue ribbon around her neck and drew forth the key in proof. “I’m keeping it as a trophy, you know. I mean the pillow-case. My, but it was fun!”

“It wasn’t you, was it?” cried Cal. Molly nodded with sparkling eyes.

“Yes. Want me to tell you all about it?”

“Yes, I do,” answered Cal.

“Beg my pardon for saying what you said, then,” she commanded.

“What did I say?” muttered Cal.

“That I’d better tell you or—or something! Don’t you know that you mustn’t threaten a lady? Besides,” she added thoughtfully, “it just makes them stubborner.”

“All right,” said Cal grudgingly. “I won’t do it again.”

“But go ahead.”

“Go ahead—what?” he asked.

“Beg my pardon. You haven’t yet, you know.”

“Oh, well—all right. I do.”

“But you don’t!” she exclaimed impatiently. “You just stand there and say you do and you don’t!”

“Seems to me you’re mighty particular,” he grumbled.

“I guess you don’t want to know about it, after all,” she said indifferently.

“Yes, I do, honest! I—I beg your pardon, Miss.”

“Well, but please don’t call me Miss. I’m only thirteen and you’re not a miss until you have long dresses. Call me Molly. What do they call you? Jack?”

“No, Cal.”

“Cal? That’s a funny name. Is it your middle name?”

“No, it’s just—just a—a nickname.”

“Oh, all right.” She folded her hands in her lap, having finished with her apple, and considered her narrative. “Well, it all happened like this,” she began after a moment. “You see, there’s just me here and no one to play with. Of course I don’t mind that so very much because I like to read books and stories. But it would be nicer if I knew somebody, wouldn’t it? That’s what I told Aunt Lydia and she said it was too bad I wasn’t going to school because I’d meet lots of girls there. You see, father doesn’t want me to go to school this winter because I’m pretty well along anyhow and then my eyes got bad last spring. I told Aunt Lydia I guessed I’d like to know some of the boys next door, but she just held up her hands in horror. Did you know, Cal, that you are awfully bad? Aunt Matilda says so. She says you’re a—a— Oh, what was it? A ‘parcel of young varmints,’ that’s it!”

Cal grinned and Molly smiled back at him.

“I guess Aunt Matilda doesn’t like boys very well, though,” she continued extenuatingly. “Anyhow, she said I mustn’t think of playing with any of you. But I used to hear you across the hedge and one day I thought I’d like to see what a ‘varmint’ looked like. So I went over there and peeped through. You were playing tennis, some of you, and some of you were on the porch. And just then two—I think you were one of them, Cal—came over toward the hedge and I heard you talking.”

Cal grunted. The mystery was clearing up.

“I remember,” he said. “We were talking about getting through the hedge.”

“And stealing—I mean helping yourself to the apples.”

“I guess stealing’s the word,” he said with a smile.

“The other boy saw me or heard me or something, don’t you remember? I got down on the grass and hid until you’d gone. Then I thought what fun it would be to surprise you. I didn’t want to tell because—oh, because I should think it would be rather fun to steal apples. Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t very much fun the other night!”

“Oh, yes, it was—for me!” cried Molly.

“I—we thought you were a ghost,” said Cal a trifle shamefacedly.

“I meant you to!”

“I don’t see, though, how you did it.”

“I’ll tell you. It was a—an inspiration, I guess! You see, I didn’t mind you taking all the apples you wanted, because there are just bushels and bushels of them and my aunts would never miss them a tiny bit, but I did want to have some fun. At first I thought I’d wait for you at the hedge and threaten to tell if you didn’t take me along with you. But I didn’t know any of you, you see. Then I just decided that I’d have fun my own way. So I got a sheet out of the linen-closet and a broom from the kitchen. I did that before supper and hid them under the bed in my room. What made it very difficult was that they insist on my going to bed every night at half-past nine. At home I always stay up until ten. So I had to go to bed as usual, though, of course, I didn’t really take all my clothes off. Aunt Lydia always puts her head in my door and says good night to me. That’s my room on the side. See the two windows over the porch? That’s how I got out. I was afraid to go downstairs because my aunts would be certain sure to hear me. So after Aunt Lydia said good night I crept out of bed and dropped the broom and the sheet out of the window. Then I came down after them.”

“I don’t see how you did it,” said Cal with a trace of admiration. “You didn’t jump, did you?”

“No, there’s a rain-spout on the other side; you can’t see it from here. I got down by that and I got back the same way. It isn’t hard at all. You stand on the porch rail and then you put one foot on the thing that holds the spout up and the other on top of the dining-room window, and then you can get your knee over the edge of the roof and you’re all right. I made sure I could do it before supper, though. After I got down I took the sheet and the broom to the wagon-shed back there and got ready. I waited and waited and thought you weren’t coming after all. Then I could see you moving down by the hedge. So I crept out and went around through the blackberry patch until I was at the edge of the orchard. But you were all so busy you wouldn’t have seen me, anyway. When you did see me, though, it was just too funny for anything!”

Molly laughed merrily at the memory of it and Cal said “Huh!” in a disgusted tone and looked bored.

“It was a silly trick to play,” he said severely.

“Because you were fooled,” responded Molly serenely. “I guess I must have looked pretty—pretty ghastly! Anyway, you all yelled like anything and just ran! I was glad you got your apples, though. I suppose you were all too scared to drop them!”

“I didn’t get mine,” said Cal grimly. “Mine were under the tree.”

“Then it’s your pillow-case I found!” exclaimed Molly, clapping her hands gleefully. Cal nodded. Then he grinned.

“I was up in the tree,” he said. Molly frowned.

“When?”

“After—the others left.”

“You never were!”

“Yes, I was. And you came right underneath and I was—well, I was pretty frightened.” Molly giggled. “You’d have been, too,” he added defensively.

“Of course I would,” she owned. “I guess I’d have fallen right out of the tree. I wish, though, I’d known you were up there, Cal,” she went on regretfully. “I’d have stayed there, I guess. Did you see me dancing?”

“Was that what you were doing? I couldn’t see very well on account of the leaves, but sometimes you looked about ten feet tall and sometimes you weren’t any higher than that.” Cal put his hand a couple of feet from the sidewalk.

“It was the broom made me look tall. And I guess when I wasn’t any higher than that I was stooping down emptying the apples out of that pillow-case. I do wish I’d known you were up there, though.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Cal with a laugh. “It was bad enough as it was. What did you dance for?”

“Oh, just—just for fun,” answered Molly vaguely. “It was a Dance of Triumph.”

“Where did you go to? It seemed to me you just—just vanished.”

“I suppose that was because I took the sheet off. I had a dark dress on.” She smiled reminiscently. “It was lots and lots of fun, Cal.”

“Maybe it was for you,” he grumbled. “We didn’t think it was very funny. We thought it was a ghost for sure. I cal’late the fellows will be glad to find out what it really was. Spud said last night he was pretty sure you knew something about it.”

“Was he the boy who came with you for the apples?” Cal nodded. “Do you think they’ll be very—very angry with me?” she asked. “It was just a joke, you know.”

“No, I cal’late not,” answered Cal. Molly gave a little shriek of triumph.

“Now I know why they call you Cal!” she exclaimed. “It’s because you’re always saying ‘cal’late.’”

Cal reddened. “That’s why,” he confessed. “They make a lot of fun of me. I don’t see why cal’late ain’t just as good a word as—as any other.”

“I suppose it hasn’t the sanction of usage,” replied Molly glibly. Cal blinked.

“I cal’late—I mean I guess that’s it,” he murmured. Molly laughed.

“You said it again, you know.”

“Yes,” answered Cal, “I’m trying to get out of it, but I keep forgetting.” There was a moment’s pause, and then, “Mrs. Linn missed her pillow-case this morning,” he announced carelessly.

“Did she?”

“Yes. I cal—I guess if I had it I could get it back and she wouldn’t know.”

“I suppose you could—if you had it,” agreed Molly.

Cal eyed her askance.

“You might give it back to me, I think.” But Molly shook her head.

“No, it’s—it’s spoils of war. Besides, I shall keep it and make you all do just what I want.”

“What?” exclaimed Cal uneasily. “What—sort of things?”

“Oh, I haven’t decided yet. Not fully, that is. There’s one thing you must do, though. I want to learn to play tennis. I guess one of you can teach me that. And I want to see a football game.”

“Oh!” said Cal gloomily. Then, brightening up, “But your aunts won’t let you have anything to do with us,” he said hopefully.

“But they will after awhile,” answered the young lady with a slight toss of her head. “You—you’re the wedge.”

“The what?” gasped Cal.

“The wedge, the entering wedge. Aunt Lydia has been watching us out of the sewing-room window for a long time, and she will tell Aunt Matilda and Aunt Matilda will scold. Then I shall tell her what a nice, polite boy you are and that you invited me to play tennis with you—”

“I didn’t!” cried Cal indignantly.

“But you’re going to,” returned Molly calmly.

“I’m not either! I—I don’t play tennis.”

“Never mind. You’ll take me over some day and one of the other boys will show me how.”

“I guess girls aren’t allowed at West House,” said Cal desperately.

“Oh, fiddle! You don’t guess anything of the sort.”

“Well, anyhow, I won’t have anything to do with it,” declared Cal with decision. Molly looked regretful.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “because I’m so afraid Aunt Matilda will make trouble when she sees that pillow-case.”

“You—you wouldn’t show it to her!” he gasped.

“I wouldn’t want to,” she answered gently, with a shake of her head.

Cal considered a minute. Finally,

“All right,” he muttered ungraciously, “I’ll see about it.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “And you do want me to play tennis with you, don’t you?”

“I cal’late I’ve got to,” he replied. Then the humor of it reached him and he chuckled. “You’re a pretty smart girl, you are,” he said in grudging admiration. Molly accepted the tribute gravely, but there was a glint of laughter in her blue eyes.

“I cal’late I’ve got some sense,” she replied demurely.

Cal flushed. “If you make fun of me I won’t do it,” he declared aggrievedly.

“I didn’t mean to make fun of you, truly,” she assured him contritely. “And—and I think ‘cal’late’ is a very nice word. I guess you’d better go now, though, because Aunt Matilda’s coming.”

“Where?” he asked in alarm. Molly nodded down the road.

“In the buggy. She’s been to the village. Oh, you needn’t run, because she’s seen you already. But if you just walk off you’ll get away before she can say anything.”

“But—but she’ll scold you, won’t she?” he asked, pausing indecisively in flight.

“Yes, but I don’t mind. Besides, she doesn’t really scold; she just ‘expostulates for my own good.’ Good-by. Come to the hole in the hedge this afternoon at half-past five and I’ll tell you when I can play tennis with you. Don’t forget!”

“I won’t,” called Cal, hurrying toward home and safety.

“You do want me to play tennis, don’t you?” she called after him.

“Yes, indeed!” he shouted back. Then he plunged through West House gate with a deep sigh of relief.