Mrs. Piper lived in a white cottage which nestled all summer under a woodbine; but there was no woodbine now, and the strips of red leather, which had held it up, were left sticking here and there by nails, and looked frightfully like caterpillars. There was a yard before the house, and in it were two or three hen-coops, half buried in snow.

“She keeps ’em in the back room, in the winter,” said Tate, referring to the chickens.

Tate opened the door, and was greeted by a black cat, and then by a gray one. A yellow kitten sprang out upon Johnny, and a hen, with a lame leg bound up in a rag, pecked at Dotty’s feet.

“Do crazy folks live here?” muttered Johnny.

Tate fumbled at the latch of the sitting-room door, but could not lift it, and it was opened from within by Mrs. Piper—a woman so fat and queer that Dotty concluded it must be Peter’s mother, and she had eaten the whole “peck of peppers” at a meal. Her cheeks were the color of peppers, and her false hair, which was very false indeed, had fallen down from the top of her forehead and drifted round to one side.

“How do you do, my pretty pets?” said she to the three visitors, and stroked Dotty’s face with her hand, which had an old kid glove on it without any fingers.

The room was not very large for a school-room. There were only ten scholars in it, and they all seemed to feel quite at home; but Dotty looked in vain for the gingerbread. There was a little earthen tea-pot on the air-tight stove, also a flat-iron.

“What a queer school!” thought she; for the hens in the back room cackled so loud as to drown the voice of a little girl reading. Mrs. Piper saw Dotty laugh behind Johnny’s shoulder, and she laughed too.

“You think I’m a funny old woman,” said she, “because I keep hens in the shed; but it’s a very warm place for ’em, dear. When I had little boys of my own, I didn’t keep cats and hens; but now my little boys are all gone, and I want something to love—do you see?”

“Yes’m,” said Dotty, very sorry Mrs. Piper’s boys were all gone, but thinking that did not make the cats and hens any the less funny.

“The reason I want little children to come to my school is, because my hens and cats can’t talk to me, and sometimes I am lonesome. I teach my scholars to be good,” said she, turning to shake a little girl for snapping apple-seeds; “that is better than book-learning. I am talking to them to-day about truth. Do you always tell the truth, little dear?” said she to Dotty, so abruptly that Dotty found it hard to keep from laughing.

“Sometimes I don’t, m’m; ’most always I do.”

“That’s right, little dear; that’s right. A lie is an abomination; do you see? Can you say the word?”

“A-bommer-nation,” repeated Dotty.

“‘An abomination to the Lord.’ That means He hates it. Now, if you ever feel as if you wanted to tell a lie, will you stop long enough to say ‘abomination’ three times?”

“Yes’m.”

“All, answer me.”

“Yes’m,” cried the children in chorus, looking up from their paper balls, and paper boats, and picture-books.

“That’s right, little dears,” said Mrs Piper; and then she waddled away to hear a class of one boy in arithmetic. After this she told the children to study their spelling lessons; and while they were doing so she looked around with a satisfied smile, and taking the tea-pot off the stove, and filling it, began to water the plants in the windows.

Dotty bit her lips.

“Are those roses in the big bowls tea-roses?” thought she. “I’ve heard of such a kind, but I didn’t know ’twas tea that made them so.”

The plants were in cups, and saucers, and basins, and everything else but flower-pots. There was a dew-plant in an iron kettle, spattered all over with little red blossoms, “like the measles,” Dotty thought. “And the caltycus had something else the matter, for it was covered with little white pimples.”

After the good lady had helped her forty plants to a cup of tea all around, it was time to hear the lessons. Tate was delighted to show the silver medal which hung from her neck by a blue ribbon, and was a sign that she stood at the head of her spelling class.

“Now school is done,” said Mrs. Piper, settling her false hair; “and as you’ve been pretty good children for the last four weeks, I suppose you all want to see my pictures?”

“Yes, ma’am,” cried the children, Johnny loudest of all.

“It isn’t what everybody would call pictures,” said Mrs. Piper, opening the bureau drawers in the entry, while no less than four cats sprang upon her, and playfully tried to assist her in taking out her treasures.

“No, I shouldn’t call them pictures,” thought Dotty, as Mrs. Piper held them so high that she saw nothing but a rough, dark surface.

“Looks to me like hemlock bark,” thought Johnny, and decided at once that he had been right in the first place, and the woman was certainly crazy.

Mrs. Piper set the pictures on a table. A murmur of surprise arose from the lips of Johnny and Dotty.

“A camp-meeting, little dears,” explained Mrs. Piper, pointing to several wee tents made of white cloth, and spread around on the smooth surface of the bark, which had been covered with moss to imitate grass. There were sprigs of evergreen stuck in for trees; and here and there a bit of broken looking-glass served for a brook. But the men and women formed the most attractive part of the scene. These were little rag babies as long as your finger, dressed for church; the men in long-tailed coats and stove-pipe hats, the women in gowns of all colors, and bonnets trimmed with tiny feathers, or very narrow taste. The preachers stood outside the tents, holding little things in their hands which Mrs. Piper said were hymn-books and Bibles, though they looked like bits of paper. The preachers were looking at the hymns with their little beads of eyes, and reading them aloud with their red worsted mouths. The men and women who seemed to be doing nothing at all but try to keep from tipping over, were actually singing, only the music, like the rippling of the looking-glass brooks, was so very low that it couldn’t be heard.

“Do you see that man with the red cheeks? It was whiskey did it; but I stuck a pin in my finger, and rubbed on a little blood. He is singing, ‘Happy day! Happy day!’ After his sins were washed away he never drank any more. His name was John Peck; he was my brother. Little boys, I hope you will never drink!

“This man with the red shirt on was my husband; he was a sea captain; and one day his ship sank, and then I was a widow. Little girls, I hope you’ll never be widows!”

Dotty hid behind Johnny’s shoulder again. Mrs. Piper went on to the next picture.

“Here is Ruth and Boze,” said she, meaning Boaz, “Did you ever read the story of Ruth? how she wouldn’t leave Naomi? that’s her mother-in-law. A good girl Ruth was, and a pretty girl. That is her apron she is holding up in her hands. I don’t know whether they made ’em with ruffles in those days or not; but the spears sticking out of it is wheat; she has picked it up in the field. And there is Boze; he is rich, for you see the gold on his coat-tail. And there’s Naomi, that Ruth loved. Do you love your own mothers, little girls, and mind what they say? I hope so. It is a beautiful story. Ask some one to read it to you. And now, these sheep, what do you think they are made of?”

“Dough,” cried Johnny.

Mrs. Piper looked crestfallen.

“Why, how did you know that, little dear? Yes, these sheep are made of dough; but their backs are ridged over with a pin to look like wool. I had sixteen, but I set ’em on the floor to dry, and the lame hen ate up ten. I want you all to be good little children and do right,” added the good woman, who tried to remember to put in a moral every few minutes. “And now I will show you some more things. Here is a piece of lava; came out of a volcano—Vesuvius. Here are some sharks’ teeth, and these are whales’ teeth; and see these big sea-shells, full of the roar of the sea that drowned my husband!

“There, that will do; it is growing dark. Now, is there anything you have learned at my school to-day, little dears?”

As she looked at Dotty, Dotty replied,—

“Yes’m; how to say Bommer-nibble.”

“She means ‘abomination,’” corrected Tate.

“Yes, I know. Remember, a lie is an abomination to the Lord. And now, good by, little dears.”

So saying, Mrs. Piper made an old-fashioned courtesy, and waved the children out of the room with both hands.

They put on their wrappings in the hall, and passed out, leaving the dear, queer old lady alone with her flowers, cats, and chickens.

“I’m glad we’ve got far enough away so we can laugh,” said Dotty.

“She’s crazy,” cried Johnny, “awful crazy.”

Tate hurried along, and caught up with Dotty. She had lingered behind to kiss her auntie, and receive a seed-cake from her cupboard.

“Didn’t I say it was a dear little school?” said Tate, for she had always known and loved her aunt Piper, and did not think how odd the dear woman must seem to a stranger.

“Ye—s,” answered Dotty, “only my face is all burning a-fire, trying to keep from laughing.”

“P’r’aps it’s queer,” said Tate; “but isn’t she a darling?”

Dotty did not answer, and Johnny gave her a sly pinch on the arm, with a very comical look about his mouth.

“And you’re going to tell your mamma you like the school, and ask her if you mayn’t come, so you can sit with me, Dotty Dimple?”

Dotty was about to say, “Yes, I’ll ask her;” for she thought, “I can do it ’way down in my throat, so she’ll know I don’t want to go—But, no; it’s wicked to deceive Tate.”

“You’re going to ask your mother?” repeated Tate.

“Bommernibble, bommernibble, bommernibble!” whispered Dotty, forgetting the word, but remembering her promise. Then she felt quite brave, and said aloud,—

“No, Tate; I’d like to sit with you forever and always; but I shan’t ask my mother; ’cause I like Miss Parker the best. Miss Parker isn’t crazy, and she isn’t a nidiot!”

“Nor my auntie isn’t, either,” said Tate, ready to cry.

“I never said she was, Tate; did I, Johnny? But I don’t want to go to a school where the hens kerdahcut right in the house, and they give their flowers tea and coffee!”

“Hurrah for you, Dot Dimple!” cried Johnny; but poor little Tate wiped off a tear with the thumb of her mitten.

The end of it all was, that as Dotty would not go to Mrs. Piper’s school, Tate left it, and went back to Miss Parker with Dotty.

“We want to sit together as long as we live,” said Dotty, coming home one night in a very happy frame of mind; “and the teacher says we are her little comforts!”

“Only think of Dotty’s being a comfort!” said Susy, with a curling lip; but Mrs. Parlin looked at her oldest daughter reprovingly, and Susy added,—

“But you do grow better, Dotty, I declare you do!” and kissed the child on the forehead.

Praise from Susy! This was something new! Dotty’s eyes twinkled and shone like stars on a winter’s night.

“You are getting to be just like anybody now,” said Prudy. “You can make bookmarks, and go to school, and have vacations.”

“I know it,” replied Dotty, with a queenly pose of the head; “and when we go to vacation, next summer, there won’t anybody ask, ‘Is this Mrs. Parlin’s baby?’”

“No, indeed,” said Prudy, consolingly. “Flyaway will be the only baby there is at Willowbrook next summer, and she is growing up.”

“I wish it was next summer now,” sighed Dotty.

And it will be “next summer” before we see Miss Dimple again.

Let us hope she may arrive at her grandfather Parlin’s in good health and spirits, and that we who meet her there may be as rosy and happy as herself.