I was twelve years old when I had the most dreadful experience of my life—an experience that I am sure would have ended in my death or insanity if it had not been for the love of my little dog Tony.

It was all my own fault, too—my own naughtiness. But let me begin at the beginning. My father and mother were going away from home on a short visit to my grandmother. They had arranged to have me stay at my Uncle Will’s and had given Molly, the maid, leave to spend the time at her own home; so the house was to be shut up and left alone.

Now I had an intimate friend, a schoolmate, of whom my mother did not approve, for family reasons, which I understood when I was older, and she never liked to have me be much with her. When Maud—for that was her name—found out that I was to be at my uncle’s a few days, she at once asked me to stay with her instead. She offered all sorts of inducements. She was going to have a party—a dance it was—and my parents did not approve of dancing. In fact, she drew such an enticing picture of the good times we would have that I was tempted to do what I had never done in my life—deceive my own mother.

I did not dare ask her to let me go to Maud’s, for I knew she would not consent, and if she positively forbade me, I think I should not have ventured to disobey, but if I did not ask her and she did not forbid, that—I thought—would not be so very bad. Fortifying myself by these thoughts, I decided to accept Maud’s invitation secretly.

I made up my mind not to go to Uncle Will’s at all, for I did not want them to know where I was going. I knew my father or mother would lock the house and leave the key at Uncle Will’s, and I wanted to get my best clothes to go to Maud’s party.

After some thought, and at Maud’s suggestion, I planned to hide myself in the house till all had left it, then get the things I wanted, and slip out of a window that was not fastened.

I knew my mother would go all over the house before she left it, and the only place I could think of to hide was in the cellar. So with these naughty thoughts in my head, I took occasion, a short time before they were to start, to slip into the cellar and hide behind some barrels. I must say that I had always a foolish fear of the cellar, and nothing but my great desire to go to Maud’s would have induced me to spend even a few minutes in it.

I heard my father drive up to the door and my mother walking about seeing that everything was shut and locked, but I did not hear that as she passed the cellar door she slipped the bolt into place.

When they were out of the house, and I heard them drive away, I came out of my hiding place, exulting in the thought that now I was free to do as I liked. I would hurry up to my room, put my best dress and ribbons and things into a traveling bag, and hurry down to Maud’s. I felt my way to the stairs, for it was late afternoon and the cellar—never very light in the brightest noon—was at that hour quite dark, and I went up those stairs the happiest, lightest-hearted girl in the world. Alas! it was my last happy moment for months.

I fumbled about for the latch, lifted it, and pushed the door. It did not open—and the truth flashed upon me. It was locked! I was a prisoner! The full horror of my position burst upon me. No one knew I was there. No one would seek me. No one could hear me, for the house was at some distance from others. I was a prisoner in a dark cellar—it was almost night—my parents would be gone three days!

I went into a frenzy, I shrieked and called, I pounded the door till my hands were bleeding, though all the time I knew no one could hear me.

I can scarcely remember what I did. I was, I believe, actually insane for a while.

Night came on; I heard—or I thought I heard—rats, and I remembered some of the terrible things I had read of these animals. I shouted again, and again beat the door. I cannot tell the horror and agony of those hours. I felt myself going mad.

I was aroused at last, after hours,—it seemed to me,—by the whining and crying of my dog, my pet, who was my constant companion. He was a clever little fellow and, I used to think, knew as much as some folks. He was now at the small, grated window of the cellar, crying and scratching at the earth, evidently trying to dig his way in to me.

His presence—even outside—comforted me, and a thought came to me. He had been taught to go to Uncle Will and others of the family, and perhaps he might be able to bring help. I called to him, and he responded joyfully. Then I gave him his order.

“Call Uncle Will!”

The faithful fellow did not want to leave me; he whined and cried, but I repeated the order in as stern a voice as I could manage.

“Call Uncle Will!” I ordered again and again, and at last he ran off.

Then I took hope and began to listen. If Uncle Will came near, I meant to call and scream to attract his attention.

But hours passed; no one came—not even my dear Tony—and I heard noises and went mad again. I was getting exhausted, sitting uncomfortably on the top step of the stairs, and suffering such violent emotion.

Meanwhile there was excitement at Uncle Will’s over the strange conduct of the dog. He barked, and howled, and cried at the door, till Uncle Will got out of bed to quiet him. But he would not be quiet, nor go into the house for all the coaxing. He insisted on barking, running towards the gate, and then back in the most frantic way.

At last, after he had kept the family awake all night, when daylight began to dawn, Uncle Will decided to follow him to see if he could find what was the matter, though he was sure the poor fellow was raving mad.

The dog led him at once to the cellar window, where he dug at the earth, and whined and cried harder than ever. At first I did not hear him,—I think I had become unconscious,—but at last I did rouse myself enough to utter a scream which Uncle Will heard. He did not recognize my voice,—indeed he said afterwards that it sounded like nothing human,—but he resolved at any rate to see what it was.

He went to the kitchen door to unlock it, but the dog went wilder than ever, seeming to think I was behind that window. However, Uncle Will came in, and on his unlocking the cellar door, I fell on the floor in a heap, as if dead.

Uncle Will was awfully frightened; he took me up in his arms—big as I was—and ran with me back to his house, which was not far away.

It was hours before I was fully myself, months before I recovered from the illness caused by the cold I had taken, and years before I got back my courage and could bear to be alone—especially at night, when all the horrors of that time would come up before me as vividly as on that dreadful night.

“How dreadful!” said Kristy in a low tone, as Mrs. Wilson paused.

“I needn’t point the moral to you, Kristy,” Mrs. Wilson said, “but I assure you I learned my lesson well; and that’s why I keep my dear little dog’s body in a glass case. I cherished him beyond everything as long as he lived, and couldn’t bear to give him up when he died at a good old age.

“Now,” said Mrs. Wilson, “I must really go. It has stopped raining, Kristy, and I have paid mamma’s debt.”

“No, indeed!” cried Kristy. “You have told me lovely stories, and mamma owes me two to pay for them!”

“That’s a curious way of calculating,” said Mrs. Wilson, laughing; “do you expect to be paid twice for everything?”

“Yes; when it’s stories,” said Kristy.

“Kristy’ll soon have to write stories for herself, I think,” said her mother, smiling, “when she has exhausted the stock of all her friends.”

Kristy blushed, but did not confess that that was her pet ambition.

“Now, mamma,” said Kristy that evening after supper was over, “some more rainy day stories, please!”

“Will you have them all at once?” asked mamma, taking up some fancy knitting she kept for evenings, “or one at a time?”

“One at a time, please,” answered Kristy.

“Well; get your work. How much did you do this afternoon?”

Kristy looked guilty. “You know I just can’t remember to knit when I’m listening to a story. I—I—believe I did not knit once across.”

Her mother laughed. “The poor Barton baby’ll go cold, I’m afraid, if he waits for his carriage robe till you finish it. How would you like to knit him a pair of stockings? Shall I set them up and give you a daily stint?”

“Ugh!” said Kristy. “Please don’t talk of anything so dreadful! You told me yourself how you hated it.”

“It’s a very good plan, nevertheless,” said Mrs. Crawford. “Perhaps it would have been wiser not to tell you about that.”

“Now, mamma!” said Kristy reproachfully.

“I think,” mamma went on, “that I shall have to make up for that story of a girl who didn’t like to work,—at least that kind of work,”—she corrected herself, “by telling you about a girl who worked enough for two.”

“Oh, oh!” cried Kristy, “I’m afraid that’ll not be very interesting.”

“Well, you shall see,” said mamma, “for I’m going to tell you how she got up a whole Christmas tree alone, and made everything on it herself.”

“Oh!” said Kristy relieved, “that’ll be good, I know; begin.”

“Well, I’ll begin where the story begins, as I have heard May tell it, with a talk between her sister and herself. One morning a little before Christmas the two girls got to talking about that happy time and the way it is celebrated, and May listened eagerly to Lottie’s description of a tree she had at her aunt’s the year before.”