“Well, darling,” said Aunt Charlotte at noon, “you said you went to hear the singing, and you look as if you had enjoyed it.”

“Oh, the singing isn’t as good as Miss Pike; she’s just the best woman. Only,” added Flaxie regretfully, “I wish I could see her soul, auntie!”

Mrs. Allen smiled.

“Wait till you know her better, and then you’ll see it shine through her face. There’s a good look about her that is better than beauty.”

After she had once begun, Flaxie would not have missed a day at school for anything. She had never learned so fast before, for she had never had a teacher she loved so well.

“Oh, auntie,” said she one day, “I’ve seen her soul shine! It shines when she smiles.”

Milly and Flaxie were the best scholars, so Miss Pike told Aunt Charlotte. But they did not study all the time. Oh, no. Miss Pike understood children, and didn’t expect them to study all the time. She often drew pictures on the blackboard for them to copy on the slate, and if they wanted to bring their dinners and play at noon she was perfectly willing; only they were not to scream too loud, or go near the desks, for fear of spilling the ink. She noticed that the little girls were more noisy after Flaxie Frizzle came; but this was not strange, for Flaxie knew a great many games that the Hilltop children had never heard of before.

“Lesson? Oh, yes. I’ve got that ole thing,” she would say sometimes, as she rushed for her hat long before school-time.

“Spell ocean, then,” said studious Milly, following her with the spelling-book in her hand.

“O-s-h-u-n. There! I’m in a hurry. I want to get to school to play ‘Bloody Murder.’”

That sounded dreadful, but I dare say was not as bad as it seemed. And one day after Flaxie had taught the little folks all the games she could possibly remember, she thought of a new thing to do.

“See there, Milly,” said she, pointing to a high pile of boards behind the schoolhouse, under one of the windows. “A man has gone and put those down there, and now let’s make a house of ’em, and live in it!”

Milly hugged Flaxie, it was such a bright idea. Make a house? Of course they would! They had made cupboards out of shingles and stones, and put clay dishes on the shelves; they had dug ovens all along the bank like swallows’ nests; but a real live house, what could be so charming as that?

But when you came to think of it, it wasn’t what you might call easy work, for the boards were very heavy; and with all their tugging the little girls could only drag them a little way across the ground.

“Well, Johnny will help,” said Milly, puffing for breath. “And perhaps Freddy will too.”

She knew they couldn’t coax Freddy quite as well as they could Johnny. The little girls never once thought of asking who owned the boards, but I will tell you; it was Esquire Blake, and he was intending to use them to repair his office, which stood not far from the schoolhouse.

“’Twill be our ownty-doanty house, and nobody must come into it but us,” said Flaxie, gazing with satisfaction at the clean boards.

“The boys must come,” suggested Milly.

“Well, yes, I s’pose they’ll have to, if they help make it.”

“And Ada Blake.”

“You always want Ada Blake to go everywhere,” pouted Flaxie. “We can invite her for company, if you want to, but ’twill be our house.”

Johnny thought it all nonsense, but consented to undertake the business. He drove four stakes into the ground, near a beautiful maple-tree, and then nailed boards on the stakes all around, making a pen about three feet high. Everybody looked on deeply interested. After that he and Freddy went fishing. The little girls felt very impatient.

“Oh dear,” said Milly, “it doesn’t look much like a house. You’d think it was for pigs to live in.”

Next day it rained; but the day after, as Johnny could get no peace of his life, he nailed on more boards, till the pen was so high you couldn’t see over it, unless you stood on tiptoe. That was high enough; but where was the roof?

“Oh, bother, what do you want of a roof? Hold up your umbrella.”

“Next house I make I’ll make it myself!” cried Flaxie, stamping her foot.

That amused good-natured Johnny, and he called together some of the boys, to help him put on a sloping roof. Then he sawed a door in the side next the river; and when all was done the building looked so much like a “truly house” that the little girls screamed for joy, and Johnny felt rather proud of his work.

“Tell you what,” said he, looking around at the boys, “this is the house that Jack built. Now let’s saw a hole in the roof and put in a stove-pipe.”

Ah, Johnny! Johnny! it was thoughtless enough to use those boards without leave; but to put in a stove-pipe was downright madness!

The girls were charmed, and wanted a fireplace immediately. Why not? That wasn’t much to make, and they made it themselves with the loose pieces of brick they picked out of the old hearth in the recitation-room.

Squire Blake knew nothing of this; neither did the teacher. The new and elegant building was located on the bank behind the schoolhouse, and as the windows that way let in the sun, the blinds were kept closed, and Miss Pike did not look out. If she had only looked out! But then perhaps she wouldn’t have thought much about it; for who would dream of little daughters of respectable parents bringing matches to school?

It might be very funny to light a fire on one’s own little hearth, and bake one’s own little biscuits for tea; but then it was certainly wrong. If it hadn’t been wrong, why didn’t the little girls tell of it at home? What made Flaxie seize a bunch of matches from the kitchen-shelf and hide them in her pocket? What made Milly snatch that piece of dough when Nancy’s back was turned, and run away with it so fast? Children are never sly, you know, when they are doing right.

If these biscuits turned out well, they were to bake some more to-morrow, and have what Johnny called a “house-warming,” and Freddy had partly promised some fish. But this was only the very first day of housekeeping, and they had invited nobody but Ada Blake to tea,—Ada and her dolls.

It seemed as if recess would never come that afternoon, and when it came it wasn’t “any longer than your little finger.” The fire was kindled the very first minute, the thimble-biscuits rolled out, and then the three children sat on the grass around their hearth to watch the baking. Seven dolls sat there too, with their party-dresses on, waiting very politely. There was a dictionary in the middle of the room for a table, with a pocket-handkerchief spread on it for a table-cloth, and Milly had set out all her best dishes there at noon, with a dot of butter, a pinch of sugar, and some bits of cake.

“I guess our oven is slow; they don’t bake much,” said Milly, peeping at the biscuits, which were placed in a row on a cabbage-leaf at a respectful distance from the fire.

“Let’s wish something while we’re waiting,” said hungry Flaxie, who had only snatched a very hurried dinner. “I wish this world was one big doughnut, with only us to eat it!”

“Pshaw!” sniffed Milly, “why didn’t you wish something good,—sponge-cake, with jelly between?”

“Wish yourself, Milly Allen, if you can do it so much better’n I can,” retorted Flaxie, putting another stick on the fire.

“Well, lemme see; I wish you and I were sisters, Flaxie Frizzle, and Ada was our aunt come from Boston.”

“Well there, Milly Allen, that isn’t half as nice as my doughnut! What’s the use to wish we were sisters, when we are twins now, and that’s almost as good?”

“Oh, I never!” laughed Ada. “Such a nidea as you being twins! You weren’t born the same day, either of you! Twins have to be born the same day, now truly, or they can’t be twins!”

There was wisdom in Ada’s voice, and wisdom in her superior smile. Flaxie raised her eyes, but that smile was too much for her, and she dropped them again. If there was one thing Flaxie could not bear, it was to be laughed at by a girl of her own age, who knew more than she did.

At that moment the school-bell rang, and, oh dear, those biscuits were not half done! So very queer, too, for the stove-pipe was red-hot, and roaring away beautifully!

The three little cooks were the last to enter the schoolhouse, and Miss Pike wondered what they were whispering about in the entry.

“Dear little creatures,” thought she, petting their heads, “I’m glad they’ve had a good time, for they deserve it!”

She called a class, and everything went on as usual, till suddenly she thought she smelt smoke, and went to the window to look out.

Miss Pike was a most sensible young lady, and knew better than to scream; but I assure you she never felt more like screaming in her life. The “house that Jack built” was all ablaze from top to bottom, and had already set fire to the schoolhouse!

She had to think fast. There were sixty children to be got out, and no time to lose. If they should know the house was on fire they would be crazed with fright and run hither and thither like wild creatures; it would never do to let them know it.

Miss Sarah was at the farther end of the room setting copies slowly, very slowly. She did not look up, and Miss Pike had no time to go and speak to her; the only thing she could do was to walk quietly up to the desk and ring the bell. That meant, “Put up your books.” A strange order while a class was reciting; but it was obeyed instantly.

“Star-spangled Banner,” said Miss Pike, calmly. She could see the little tongues of flame running along the ceiling now, but she looked as if she was thinking of nothing but music and waiting for Miss Sarah to pitch the tune. Miss Sarah dropped her pen and did it of course, wondering why; and all the sixty voices joined in it, clear and loud, as they had often done before; while in time to the music the whole sixty children marched in orderly file out of the room.

“Now, run!” cried Miss Pike, the moment the last child was in the entry, “run and tell everybody the schoolhouse is on fire!”

She had a pail of water in her hand. The children rushed through the streets screaming; the bells began to ring; the Hilltop fire-engine came out; and all the people and horses and dogs in the village. But Miss Pike was the first to pour water on the flames, and everybody said it was she who saved the schoolhouse.

There was a black hole in the wall, and another in the roof; the books were, many of them, soaked and ruined; the floor an inch deep with water, and it would take a whole week to set things to rights. But the schoolhouse was saved.

“Why, how did it take fire?” asked Uncle Ben, who had been out of town and did not come back till all was over.

The boys looked another way, the twin cousins hung their heads. Aunt Charlotte did not answer. She was wondering which child would speak first.

It was Flaxie Frizzle. Her face was very pale, and her eyes were fixed on the carpet.

“We’ve got something orful to tell you,” said she, her voice trembling; “we baked our biscuits, and Johnny built a house out there with a stove-pipe in, and we oughtn’t to taken any matches. You better believe we cried!”

“Well, well, you young rogues; so you set the schoolhouse afire? And who saved it?”

“Miss Pike!” broke forth all the children in chorus.

“Yes,” said Johnny; “but she marched us all out first, so the little ones wouldn’t get burnt. Never said a word about the fire till we got out!”

“She always does things just right. She’s one of God’s girls,” cried Freddy.

“Yes,” broke in Flaxie, strongly excited; “I don’t care if I can’t see her soul. I’ve seen it shine! Oh, it’s beautiful to be homely!”

Nobody smiled—they all thought Flaxie was right.

“Yes, it is beautiful to be homely in just Miss Pike’s way,” said Aunt Charlotte.

And then they went out to supper, and, as the twin cousins looked broken-hearted, nothing more was said about the house that Jack built.

“Oh, Flaxie, do you s’pose we’ve suffered enough?” asked little Milly that night after they had said their prayers and were lying in bed looking at the pure soft moonlight which shone on the far-away hills.

“I don’ know. I feel as if I had a pain, don’t you? Oh dear!”

“Yes, that’s just the way I feel; a pain way in deep,” replied Milly, heaving a sorrowful sigh. “And I ought to, I’m glad of it.”

“Glad, Milly Allen? How queer! Why, I don’t like to feel bad!”

“I don’t either,” said Milly, sitting up in bed and speaking very earnestly. “But don’t you ’member what Auntie Prim said that time we ran away from the party? She said children ought to suffer for their naughtiness; it’s the only way they can learn to behave better.”

“Well, any way,” said Flaxie, rolling her eyes uneasily, “’twas Johnny that put in the stove-pipe, and he ought to feel the worst. I’m going to ask Preston about that, see ’f I don’t.”

Two days after this Flaxie went home, and her little frizzled head was not seen at Hilltop any more till the next December. Then her dear Grandma Gray had rheumatic fever, and though Flaxie pitied her all she could, she made too much noise in the house, and had to be sent away. But I will tell you about that in the next chapter.