Yes, they seemed just as glad to see me as if I was the Queen of England, and had been gone all the days of my life. Father, especially, looked really overjoyed.

"How they must have missed me!" thought I, springing out of the coach and falling headlong over old Towser. "O, please catch that kitten."

Ned seized the empty basket and whirled it over his head.

"Who cares for such trash? We've got something in the house that's better than sixteen kittens."

"Rabbits?"

"Come and see," said 'Ria, giving me one hand, while she stroked Silvertoes with the other.

"O, I don't believe it's anything. Is it wax beads? You haven't asked where I came from, nor whose house I staid to. There was a woman with gold beads, and he called her Harret, and—"

"Yes, I knew they'd take good care of you," said cousin Lydia.

"And where d'you s'pose I found my kitty?" But no one seemed to hear. I had expected to be pelted with questions as to my eating, drinking, and sleeping, and to be pitied for the late distress of my mind. But no one showed the slightest curiosity; they all seemed in a great hurry to get into the house.

I stopped talking, and walked along with all the dignity of an offended pea-chicken. There might or might not be something worth going to see; but I was resolved to keep perfectly cool. Up stairs? Well, up stairs then, or up in the attic, or out on the roof,—it made no difference to me. I could keep from asking questions as long as they could, if not longer.

O, mother's room, was it? Well, I'd been wondering all the while where mother was, only I wouldn't ask. Dear me, was she sick? "So glad to see little Madge," she said, kissing me over and over again. "And what a hard time I had had."

There, she knew how I'd been suffering, and was just going to ask me some questions, when that troublesome Ned whisked me right up in his arms, and whirled me round towards the fireplace.

"If you've got any eyes, Maggie, look there."

My eyes were good enough, if that was all; but what was that woman sitting there for? I thought she had a heap of woollen clothes in her lap.

Father took it.

"Come here, Totty-wax."

I put out my hands, and felt something as soft as kittens.

"Presto, change!" cried Ned, and pulled down the top of the blanket. There lay a little, wrinkled, rosy face, a baby's face, and over it was moving a little wrinkled hand.

I jumped, and then I screamed; and then I ran out of the room and back again.

"O, O, O! Stop her! Hold her!" said Ned.

But they couldn't do it. I rushed up to the baby, who cried in my face.

"What IS that?" said I; and then I burst into tears.

"Your little sister," said father.

"It isn't," sobbed I, and broke out laughing.

Everybody else laughed, too.

"Say that again," said I.

"Your little sister," repeated father.

"Does Fel know it? And it isn't Ned's brother?" seizing father by the whiskers. "And he can't set her on the wood-pile! Came down from heaven. What'm I crying for? Came down particular purpose for me."

"Yes, Totty-wax," said father, smiling, with a tear in the corner of his eye,—

"'Twas for my accommodation
Nature rose when I was born."

"Has this child had any supper?" asked mother, in a faint voice from the bed.

"No, she can't eat," laughed I; "her face looks like a roast apple."

"Your mother means you, Maggie. You are tired and excited," said cousin Lydia. "Ruth made cream-cakes to-night."

"But I shan't go, 'thout I can carry the baby. Ned's holding her. She isn't his brother. I haven't had her in my arms once. How good God was! O, dear, what teenty hands! She can't swallow 'em, on 'count of her arms. Sent particular purpose for me—father said so. 'Ria Parlin, she's nowhere near your age. You have everything, but you can't have this. She gapes. She knows how to; she's found her mouth; she's found her mouth!"

And so I ran on and on, like a brook in a freshet, and might never have stopped, if they had not taken me out of the room, and tied me in a high chair before a table full of nice things. And Ruthie stood there with a smile in her eyes, and said if I spoke another word, I shouldn't see baby again that night.

I couldn't help pitying Ned. I wasn't sure I had treated him just right. I had prayed, off and on, as much as two or three weeks in all, that God would send me a sister, and of course that was why she had come. I didn't wish Ned to know this; he would be so sorry he hadn't thought of it himself, and prayed for a brother. I told Fel about it, and she didn't know whether it was quite fair or not. "Yes, it was, too," said I; for I never would allow Fel the last word. "It was fair; Ned's older 'n me, and ought to say his prayers a great deal more reggurly."

O, that wonderful new sister! For days I never tired of admiring her.

"Look, mamma! 'Ria, did you ever, ever see such blue eyes?"

And then I sat and talked to the new sister, and asked her

"Where did she get her eyes of blue?"

But she did not answer, as the baby does in the song,—

"Out of the sky, as I came through."
"What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in."
"Where did you get that pearly ear?
God spake, and it came out to hear."

Ah! If she could only have talked, wouldn't she have told some sweet stories about angels?

I couldn't have left her for anything else but that wedding; but Ruthie promised to take good care of her—and I could trust Ruthie! Ned wasn't going; there were to be no children but Fel and me. Well, yes, Gust was there; but that was because he happened to be in the house. The wedding was in Madam Allen's parlors. I stood up before the minister, with wax beads on my neck, and white slippers on my feet. Somebody else stood there, too; for one wouldn't have been enough. Fel dressed just like me—in white, with the same kind of beads; only she was pale, and I wasn't, and she looked like a white rosebud, and I didn't.

We stood between the "shovin' doors,"—that was what Gust called them,—and there was a bride and bridegroom, too. I nearly forgot that. I remember lights, and flowers, and wedding cake; and by and by Madam Allen came along, looking so grand in her white turban, and gave the bride a bridal rose, but not Fel or me a single bud. Then, when people kissed the bride, I kissed her, too, and she whispered,—

"Call me aunt Martha, dear."

"O, yes, Miss Rubie," said I; "you are my cousin, aunt Martha."

For I could not understand exactly.

Uncle John hugged me, and said they were all going away in the morning, he and aunt Martha, and Zed; and then I felt sorry, even with my wax beads on, and said to father,—

"I tell you what, I love my uncle John that was."

No, Fly, he didn't have any horse then called "Lighting Dodger;" but it was the same uncle John, and aunt Martha is the very woman who pets you so much, and has that pretty clock, with a pendulum in the shape of a little boy in a swing.

After that wedding there was a long winter. I went to school, but Fel didn't. She looked so white that I supposed her mother was afraid she would freeze. Miss Rubie was gone, and there were no lessons to learn; but Madam Allen didn't care for that; she said Fel was too sick to study. Whenever I didn't have to take care of the baby, I went to see her; but that baby needed a great deal of care! For the first month of her life I wanted to sit by her cradle, night and day, and not let any one else come near her. The next month I was willing Ned should have her half the time; and by the third month I cried because I had to take care of her at all.