HEN you will surely send those peaches this afternoon?” said Harry to the man, when all was in readiness to turn their faces homeward.

“Surely; and if you don't hurry up they'll get there before you.”

Hurrying was just in Pet's line, and he pricked up his ears as though he fully understood this last remark. Rex gave him the word and away he flew, almost running against the gatepost in his eagerness to be off from that region of coloured boys and peach stones.

“Which way shall we go?” asked Rex, consulting his little silver watch; “we have plenty of time.”

“Of course we have,” said Nan, “and why shouldn't we stop somewhere when there is an elegant luncheon in the bottom of this cart and we have not taken a minute to eat it?”

“Sure enough,” Harry exclaimed, and the children stared at each other with a look of amazement, wondering how it ever could have happened that they should for a moment have forgotten anything so important.

“I tell you what let's do,” said Rex; “let's go home by the Rumson Road. I know a lovely great tree, where we can rest Pet while we eat the luncheon.”

Harry and Nan fell in with the plan, and Pet, who, with true pony instinct, had started the shortest way home, was obliged to right-about-face. There are not many more charming drives than that of the Rumson Road, bordered as it is on one side by beautiful country houses, whose windows command a near view of the river and a distant one of the sea. Luxuriant hedges and evenly trimmed grass-plots line the drive, and here and there a fine old tree throws a grateful shadow athwart the red soil road. Though each of the little trio had been over it many times before, it seemed to-day to wear a new beauty in their eyes, and when they reached a point where it curves gracefully and two grand old places confront each other, Nan's enthusiasm found vent.

“Isn't it just too beautiful for anything?” she exclaimed. “Yes, it is lovely,” Rex answered,—“just like the country far away from the sea, and yet you can see the ocean as plain as day.”

“It is a great pity,” said Nan, “that plants and flowers won't grow as they ought to, close down to the shore.” She was looking at a great bed of flowers in the midst of one of the lawns, and recalling a little company of spindly geraniums, which she had vainly tried to make flourish in her little garden at home, so depressing is the effect of salt sea-fogs and sandy soil upon all growing things. “And there are no trees to speak of near the sea,” she added, with a little sigh, for she dearly loved the green and the shade of the inland country; “nothing but meadows of great coarse grass.”

“You forgot the lawns round the places on the boulevard, Nan,” said Harry.

“Oh, to be sure, but the grass only grows there because they have men to sprinkle and 'tend to it all the time. Papa says he could s'port half-a-dozen little girls like me for what it costs for one of those lawns a single summer.”

“That seems very extravagant,” said Regie, who had quite a business way of looking at matters.

“I think I would like to live back here, where things grow as though they loved it, and not because they are made to,” Nan remarked, thoughtfully.

“Indeed, I know better, Nannie Murray; you love the sea too much to be contented away from it a week,” Harry remarked, with brotherly superiority. “Why, mother took you to Grandma Murray's when you were only a scrap of a baby, and you cried and fretted so she 'was ashamed of you, and had to bring you home. The moment you caught sight of the sea you crowed and clapped your little hands, and behaved like another baby altogether. No, sir-ree, you'd be sick of living back here in a week.”

“Well, perhaps I would,” Nan admitted, for she knew, after all, that no sound was so sweet in her ears as the roar of the breakers on the beach, nor anything that looked quite so beautiful to her as the dear old ocean, whether under a blue sky or a grey one.

By this time they had reached Regie's tree. It stood just at the top of a little descent in the road, and not many yards away from one of the numerous railroad crossings which traverse that part of the country.

Rex was helped out to a comfortable seat under it. Harry took Pet out of the shafts and tied him to a rail fence near by, while Nan, a perfect counterpart of her energetic mother, began transferring the luncheon from the basket to the grass, and spreading it out so that it should look as inviting as possible.

Then there was silence as far as any continued conversation was concerned for the space of fifteen minutes. There was an occasional “These biscuits are delicious,” or a “Please pass me the sponge cake,” but that was all. A good appetite and plenty to gratify it generally quiets, for the time being, even the most incessant of little chatterboxes.

When the luncheon was all disposed of, save a few crumbs,—which, by the way, made a beautiful meal for a family of ants the next day,—Regie threw himself on his back, and with hands folded under his head, looked up into the boughs, and in dreamy fashion watched the birds flying in and out. Harry whipped the inevitable boat hull out of his pocket and began whittling; and Nan, as any one who knew her could have foretold, soon discovered some sort of wild flowers at a little distance, and wandered off to gather them. They proved to be Black-eyed Susans, as the children call the yellow field daisies; and when she had picked them she discovered a larger growth of the same flower farther on in the midst of one of those luxurious wild “hedges, which often flourish along the line of railroads in the country. Of course she must needs have these too, and she hurried to reach them, as though half afraid that someone would seek to rob her of the prize. Eagerly she broke the stems; with a quiet knack placed each flower just where it would most contribute to the effectiveness of her bouquet, and she was just turning to go back to the boys when she spied something large and dark lying right across the track a hundred yards away.

“Harry! Reginald!” she cried, at the top of her voice, “come here, quick!” at the same time shading her eyes with her hand, to discover, if possible, what the something might be. Harry was on his feet in an instant, for Nan was hidden from sight, and he feared some accident. Regie reached for his crutches and followed after as fast as he could. It seemed to Nan as though Harry never would come. “Look there,” she cried, as soon as he was within hearing distance, “What can it be?” pointing down the track as she spoke.

“My jimini, I believe it's a cow!” and, more courageous than Nan, hurried on to investigate. Nan, with a pretty native thoughtfulness, waited till Rex had hobbled up to her, and then they trudged along to join Harry, who had reached the dark object, and stood poking at it with a sharp-pointed stick. Yes, it was certainly a great, dark-red cow, and the little party, gathering around her, stared at her for a few seconds in awe-struck silence.

“Is she dead?” asked Nan, betraying a world of emotion in her voice.

“Looks like it, doesn't it?” said Harry, appealing to Regie. Rex shook his head solemnly in the affirmative.

“Oh, dear, dear!” cried Nan, “she'll be run over when the train comes.”

“It won't hurt her if she is,” answered Harry, trying to assume a light tone; but his face plainly showed that he thought it a pretty serious matter.

“I wonder what we ought to do?” said Rex.

“I think we had better get right off this track this minute,” Nan wisely advised, “for there's no knowing when a train may come round the curve yonder.” So they clambered up the bank and sat down to deliberate.

“Do you suppose she will throw the train off the track?” questioned Nan.

“I don't believe so,” said Rex, “that's what the cow-catcher is for, you know.”

“But the trouble is they don't always catch,” remarked Harry, with an emphatic shake of his head.

“Oh, do you suppose a train may be coming?” asked Nan, with a perceptible little shiver.

“How should we know, goosie?” answered Harry, with a nervous sort of shrug.

“But,” questioned Rex, in business-like fashion, “what are we going to do about it?”

“Well,” said Harry, “I don't see that we can do anything. I haven't an idea where this road can run to. Perhaps it is not used now.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” cried Nan. “Hark!” and she pushed back her sun-bonnet so that she could hear more distinctly.

Yes, surely it was a whistle, all three of the children heard it,—a long way off no doubt; but now they hear it again, and it sounded nearer.

“I think we ought to run down the track and stop the train,” urged Rex.

“But how shall we do it?” Harry exclaimed. “I don't believe they would stop just for our calling; and besides, they might not hear us; we ought to signal somehow.”

The words “signal somehow” suggested a red flag to Nan, for she knew that was what they used at times of danger, and the thought suggested—well, no matter what, but she disappeared behind a bush, and in a moment re-appeared, waving a veritable little red flag.

“Where did you get it?” cried the boys both at once, and staring at her in blank astonishment.

“It is my flannel skirt,” Nan replied, with cheeks well nigh as scarlet as the skirt itself.

“Good for you, Nan; you're a 'cute one!” and Harry quickly fastened the skirt to the same stick with which he had poked the cow. Then he rushed off, calling, “Come on, Nan; but Rex had better wait here.”

Poor Rex! never had he felt so thoroughly out of patience with that lame leg of his. It seemed so hard not to be able to run with the best of them when there was so much excitement in the wind.

“May I go?” said Nan, appealingly, and as though she dared not stir without permission from his little Royal Highness.

“Of course, child,” said the king, somewhat ungraciously.

Harry hurried along the track, and rounding the curve immediately gained a position, from which he knew the little flag could be seen from quite a distance? He reached the spot none too soon, for by this time the train was in sight. Right away he began waving vigorously. Nan's sun-bonnet was hanging from her neck, and she quickly untied the strings and shook it wildly up and down.

“Oh, Harry! do you think they see us?” she cried.

“See us! why, they can't help seeing us, goosie.” Harry called Nan by this name more often than by any other. He did not mean it unkindly, and Nan did not mind.

“They are slowing up,” cried Harry, jubilantly.

“They are slowing up,” Nan repeated, in the vain hope that Rex might hear her. The next moment the train came to a standstill, and Nan dropped in a limp heap to the ground, for, trembling with excitement, her little limbs, stout though they were, refused longer to support her.

“Well, children, what's up?” shouted the engineer, from the cab of the locomotive. “I hope you ain't stopped the train for the fun of the thing.”

“Well, I guess not,” cried Harry, indignantly. “There's a dead cow on the track just round the curve; we were afraid she might throw your train off.”

“Good for you,” answered the man, “you may have saved us an ugly accident. Come, Joe,” he called to the fireman, as he jumped from his engine. “Now show us where she is, Johnnie.”

“My name's Harry,” suggested that small gentleman, not caring to be addressed by the general title of Johnnie.

“Well, then, Master Harry, lead the way.” Nan stayed where she was. The excitement of the last few moments had robbed her of all strength; besides, she did not exactly want to see them drag that poor cow from the track. And now the people in the train began to crane their necks from the car windows to ascertain what might be the' cause of the delay. A few men had gotten out and had gone ahead to investigate.

“What's wrong, honey?” asked an old woman of Nan, whose seat on the embankment brought her just on a level with the window.

“There's—there's a cow on the track,” answered Nan, with a big sigh between the two “there's,” as if her little heart had been quite overburdened.

“And de engineer saw it in time to stop de train? Tank de Lord!” ejaculated the old woman.

“No, no, he didn't; we stopped the train,” Nan answered, proudly; “the engineer couldn't see the cow at all from here.”

“Bress my heart! how did yer do it, chile?”

“Why, with my flannel skirt,” Nan explained. She had not noticed that others in the car were listening to their conversation, but at this remark a coarse derisive laugh made her realise that a dozen pair of eyes were upon her. It proved too much for her overstrung nerves. She burst into tears and threw herself flat upon the grass, burying her face in her hands.

“Ye'd all oughter be ashamed o' ye'selves,” said the old mammy, turning indignantly upon the fellow-passengers, though as much mystified as any of them by Nan's reply to her question.

Meanwhile the cow had been pulled from the track, and Regie and Harry were naturally much elated by the earnest commendation of the passengers who stood about them. “Look here,” said one of them, evidently a farmer, “seems to me we ought to do something for these little people; who knows but some of us might have been in Kingdom Come but for them.”

“That's so,” answered another passenger, “but what can yer do more'n thank 'em? they look like gentlefolks' children. I reckon they wouldn't take money for doing a kind turn.”

“Well, I guess not,” said Regie, who had overheard the last remark.

“I thought so,” answered the passenger, with a knowing wink. “He's got the right spirit, but I'd like to know one thing: where did you get that 'ere red flag?”

“It's my sister's flannel skirt,” said Harry.

“And who was so awful 'cute as to think of it?”

“Why, Nan, of course,” Harry replied, and as though Nan's “'cuteness” was a widely-accepted fact.

They had all been walking back toward the train as they talked, and now a warning whistle from the engineer hurried every one on board. As the wheels of the car began to turn slowly, the old mammy was the first to descry the little flannel skirt, whose mention had caused so much merriment, flying from the stick, which Harry had thrust into the ground when he had no farther use for it.

“Oh, see!” she cried, pointing towards it, “that's how she did it—she did make a flag of it. Now that's what I call 'cute.”

“'Cute, I should say so,” exclaimed the passenger who had been talking with Regie. “Let's give 'em three cheers as we go, one apiece, and the last and the loudest for the girl—the smart little owner of the little red skirt.” At the sound of the hearty cheering Nan raised her head, with a smile shining through her tears. She had heard the old mammy's exclamation, and then she understood why the people had laughed when she told them she had stopped the train with her flannel skirt. How stupid of her not to have explained that she made a flag of it! Four slow puffs from the locomotive were heard above the cheering, then a dozen short quick ones, and in another second the train had rounded the curve and was out of sight, though for several minutes they could hear the noise of it growing fainter and fainter in the distance.

“Well, now we had better hurry home,” said Rex, drawing a long breath. “It wall be seven o'clock before we get there, and Sister Julia will be awfully worried.”

Nan readjusted the little skirt that had done such good and novel service, and then they hurried back to Pet and the cart as fast as Regie could manage to get over the ground.

It was indeed nearly seven o'clock before they reached home, and Sister Julia was worried—worried enough to have been waiting at the gate an hour, peering up and down the road in the deepening twilight, wondering what could have happened, and which way they would come home, and sometimes wondering if they ever would come at all. Oh! how happy she felt when she recognised the patter of Pet's nimble feet on the hard boulevard, long before she could discover the little turnout itself.

“Bless your little hearts!” she cried, running to meet them, “I have been so worried! what has kept you such a long while?” The children tried to tell all in one breath. “Oh, lots of things,” they answered. “We had to wait to stop a train because a dead cow was on the track,” said Nan.

“And Pet almost choked to death on a peach stone,” added Rex, “and——”

“Oh, wait a moment,” said Sister Julia, putting her fingers to her ears; “I cannot understand a word if you all talk at once.” Mrs. Murray was standing in the doorway; she had felt sure the children would come home all right. “How about the peaches?” she asked as they came up the path, for all this excitement did not make her forget that everything was in readiness for preserving the next day.

“Oh, they'll surely come to-night, the man promised faithfully,” Harry answered. “Hark! I heard a waggon; I guess they're coming now.” Yes, the waggon turned in at the gate, and Mrs. Murray's mind was as much relieved about the peaches as Sister Julia's about the children. The little trio did justice to an ample supper that night, and after an hour's narration of the exciting experiences of the day, they were perfectly willing to desert the open wood fire in the sitting-room for downy pillows and blankets, those comfortable contrivances which waft tired little people into the realm of slumberland.