Philip Vane! The words flashed into Susan’s mind as soon as she opened her eyes the next morning, Philip Vane—the new little boy next door! And Susan jumped out of bed and, running to the window, peered eagerly over at the old Tallman house.

Yes, some one was already up and stirring, for smoke was pouring out of the kitchen chimney, but there was no sign to be seen of any little boy.

Breakfast over, Susan hurried through her daily tasks about the house, and then ran out to the chicken-yard, with her bowl of chicken-feed under her arm. She waited until the fowls, with their usual squawkings and cluckings, had gathered about her feet, and addressed them solemnly.

“I’ve a piece of news for you,” said Susan, “and you are not going to have one bite of breakfast until I’ve told you. There is a little boy coming to live next door, and his name is Philip Vane. We are going to play together and be friends. Aren’t you glad?”

Old Frizzly, so named because her feathers grew the wrong way, could no longer restrain her impatience at this delay of her meal. She uttered an extra loud squawk and flapped her wings wrathfully. But Susan accepted it as an answer to her question.

“Old Frizzly is the only one of you with any manners at all,” said she reprovingly. “You are greedy, and you are rude, and you don’t care a bit whether I have any one to play with or not.”

And, hastily emptying her bowl, Susan departed to station herself upon the low stone wall that separated the Tallman house from her own. She saw heads pass and repass the open windows, sounds of hammering floated out upon the sweet spring air, rugs were vigorously shaken on the little back porch. The butcher’s cart rumbled noisily past on the main road, and a slim lady, with fair hair and a long blue apron, stepped out on the porch and, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed down the driveway as if she were expecting some one.

But, in spite of these interesting sights and sounds, Susan felt disappointed, for not a single peep did she have of the new little boy.

“Did Miss Liza say there was a little boy, Grandmother?” asked Susan, coming into the house at dinner-time so low in her mind that she dragged patient Flippy along by one arm, her limp feet trailing on the ground behind her.

“Why, yes,” answered Grandmother, gazing into the oven at a pan of nicely browned biscuit. “I told you yesterday what she said, Susan. ‘A little boy about the age of your Susan,’ said she. Now run to the door for me and see whether Grandfather is coming. I want him to carry over this plate of biscuit to Mrs. Vane to show ourselves neighborly, and you shall go along with him if you like.”

Susan needed no second invitation. She skipped ahead of Grandfather as they went through the low place made in the stone wall for Grandmother and Miss Tallman to step through easily. But when they reached the doorway, and Mrs. Vane stood before them, she shyly hid behind Grandfather’s great leather boots.

She listened to the grown-up talk with ears wide open for some mention of a person her own age, but it was not until Grandfather turned to go that she felt bold enough to slip her hand in his and give it a little squeeze as if to remind him why she had come.

“Oh, yes,” said Grandfather, understanding the squeeze perfectly and so proving himself to Susan the wisest man in the world. “This is my little granddaughter Susan, Mrs. Vane. She was very much interested in a rocking-horse that fell from one of your vans yesterday.”

“That was Phil’s rocking-horse,” said Mrs. Vane, smiling kindly down into Susan’s big black eyes, at this moment half friendly and half shy. “Philip is my little boy, and he will be so glad of a next-door neighbor. He has had no one to play with in the city, and he has been very ill, too, but I know he will enjoy himself here where he can run and shout as much as he likes, and I’m sure he will soon be well, now that he can play out in this good sun and air.”

Susan looked all about her in search of a little boy running and shouting as much as he liked, but Phil’s mother met her glance with a shake of the head.

“No, he isn’t here yet,” said she. “But I expect him any minute. His father is going to bring him up from the city this morning.”

Filled with the hope of seeing Phil arrive, Susan hurried through her dinner, but as she left the house and started toward the garden wall, the sight of Snuff limping dismally along on three legs drove all other thoughts from her mind.

“Grandfather, Grandfather, Snuffy’s hurt,” she called, and, putting her arms around her shaggy playfellow, she tried to help him up the back steps.

Snuff whimpered a little to gain sympathy, but he bore the pain without flinching when Grandfather gently pulled the cruel splinter from his foot, and washed and bound up the wound. Susan, remembering Snuff’s sweet tooth, begged a bowl of custard from Grandmother, and she was enjoying Snuff’s pleasure in the treat when a voice fell upon her ears.

“I’m here,” said the voice. “I’ve come. I’m Phil.”

Susan sprang to her feet and faced the thinnest little boy she had ever seen.

“He’s as thin as a bone,” thought she, borrowing an expression from Grandmother.

But the thin little face owned a pair of honest blue eyes, and a smile so wide that you couldn’t help smiling back even if you happened to be feeling very cross. And, as Susan didn’t feel cross in the least, you may imagine how broadly she smiled upon her new neighbor.

“Is this your dog?” asked Phil, eyeing Snuff’s bandage with respectful interest. “I’m going to have a dog and a cat and maybe some hens and chickens, too.”

Susan related Snuff’s accident, and the invalid, feeling all eyes upon him, dropped his head heavily to the ground with a deep sigh and a mournful thud of his tail. Then he opened one eye to see the effect upon his audience.

Susan and Phil broke into laughter at such sly tricks, and Snuff, delighted with his success, beat his tail violently upon the piazza floor.

“I brought over my Noah’s Ark,” announced Phil, taking from under his arm the gayly painted little house upon which Susan’s eyes had been fixed from the first. “We’ll play, if you like.”

And Susan and Phil, with the ease of old friends, proceeded to marshal the strange little toy animals in line, two by two, behind Mr. and Mrs. Noah and their stiff and stolid family.

“Now you sing a song,” said Phil. “Do you know it?” And without waiting for Susan’s shake of the head he burst loudly into tune:

“They marched the animals, two by two,

One wide river to cross—

The elephant and the kangaroo,

One wide river to cross.”

“But you see the kangaroo won’t stand up, so I have to put the tiger with the elephant. Then you sing it this way”

And he took up the chant again:

“They marched the animals, two by two,

One wide river to cross—

The elephant and the tigeroo,

One wide river to cross.”

“Do you like it?” asked Phil, looking up into Susan’s face with a smile.

Susan nodded with an energy that set her curls a-bobbing.

“There’s Grandmother in the window,” said she. “Let’s go in and see her.”

Grandmother put down her knitting to welcome Philip, and bade Susan pass the cinnamon cookies.

“I know my mother likes me to eat them,” announced Phil, silent until he had disposed of his cooky, “because she wants me to grow fat.”

“Perhaps she would like you to take another one,” said Grandmother, hiding a smile and passing the plate again.

“I was sick,” went on Phil, whose tongue seemed loosened by the second cinnamon cooky. “I was sick so long I nearly all melted away. My father calls me Spindle Shanks. But I’m going to grow big and fat now—if I eat enough,” he added with his eyes on the plate of cakes.

Each with a cooky in hand and an extra one in Phil’s pocket, Susan escorted her new friend down Featherbed Lane in the hope that Grandfather would invite them into the office.

He was writing busily, but when Susan and Phil, clinging to the window-sill, all but pressed their noses against the pane, Grandfather put down his pen and motioned them to come in.

“How do you do, sir,” said Grandfather as Phil shook hands in true manly fashion. “So you are my next-door neighbor. I hope we shall be good friends.”

“Oh, he will, Grandfather,” said Susan, speaking up for her new acquaintance, who, standing speechless, allowed his gaze to travel from the high boots up to the quizzical brown eyes looking so pleasantly down upon him.

“Well, neighbor, we shall have to fatten you up a little, I’m thinking,” remarked Grandfather heartily, observing thin little Phil in his turn.

“Yes,” agreed Phil, finding his tongue at last and taking a nibble of his cooky as if to begin the fattening process at once.

“I mean to eat and grow fat. My mother wants me to; she said so. My father calls me Spindle Shanks,” he added, as if rather proud of his new name.

“Is that so?” said Grandfather with interest. “Now I shouldn’t have thought of calling you that. But I might have called you ‘Pint o’ Peanuts’ if any one had asked me.”

Phil and Susan went off into a fit of laughter at this funny name, and when they recovered Grandfather remarked gravely:

“The best thing to do in a case like this is to build up an appetite. Susan, you go with Philip up to his house and ask his mother if she will let him take a little drive with Parson Drew and you and me over to Green Valley. Be sure to tell her it’s to work up an appetite. Then cut across and tell Grandmother we are going to the Green Valley Court-House and that we shall be home by five o’clock.”

Grandfather was forced to stand on the doorstep and call the last part of his directions after Susan. For at the first mention of a drive she had caught Phil’s hand and started on a run up the driveway leading to his house.

Mrs. Vane hastily polished off her son with a corner of the kitchen roller towel, snuggled him into a warm sweater, and sent word to Grandfather that she was very glad to have Philip go driving, though he didn’t need to work up an appetite she was sure.

Grandmother made Susan hunt for her straw hat which, strange to say, was not to be found upon its accustomed nail. Grandmother and Phil searched downstairs, while Susan ran about frantically upstairs, so afraid they would be late that she could only half look. But at last she discovered her hat upside down under the bed, with rubber Snowball taking a nap in it, just as Susan had put her to bed the day before.

In spite of this delay the children were in good time, and with Susan wedged tightly on the seat between Grandfather and the minister, and Phil standing between the great leather boots with either hand on Grandfather’s knee, they drove off in fine style.

Mr. Drew was the village minister, a young man with a pleasant manner and a twinkle in his kind blue eyes. He and Grandfather were special friends. They liked to talk together, though they rarely agreed, and sometimes became so excited in their talk that you might almost think they were quarreling. But of course Susan knew better than that.

Grandfather’s horse, big bony Nero, had hurt his knee and had been turned out to grass to rest and recover. So this afternoon Mr. Drew held the reins and chirruped gently to his little brown Molly as she carried them briskly along the road.

As the grown-up talk rumbled on over her head, Susan peered out like a bright-eyed bird, and at every interesting landmark or familiar spot she called, “Look, Phil, look!” until from its frequent turning there was some danger that Phil’s head might snap completely off its frail little neck.

“There is the old schoolhouse, Phil,” called Susan. “We can play house on the doorstep.

“And here is the row of cherry trees. By and by we will come here with a pail.

“And, Phil, the crossest old cow lives in this field. Don’t you ever come here by yourself. Once I only climbed up on the fence to look at her, and she put down her head and ran at me. And how she did moo—as cross as anything.”

“I’m not afraid of her,” said Phil stoutly, as, safe behind the shelter of Grandfather’s boots and bowling swiftly along the road, he cast a defiant look at the surly bossy securely fastened by a rope to a stout stake in the ground. “Maybe I’ll take you there sometime. I won’t let her hurt you.”

But the cow was left behind them, and Susan called Phil to look at the poultry farm, with its ducks and geese, its hens and chickens, cackling cheerfully and running about in amiable confusion.

Now they were nearing the town of Green Valley, and down the hill and over the bridge they rumbled to stop before the imposing stone Court-House, with its parking-space for automobiles and its row of hitching-posts, to one of which was tied little brown Molly.

Susan danced impatiently up and down as Grandfather descended heavily to the sidewalk.

“Oh, Grandfather,” said she, catching hold of his hand, “I want to take Philly to Madame Bonnet’s. May I? Please say ‘yes.’”

“To be sure,” answered Grandfather, feeling in his pocket as he spoke. “It will be a good place for you to wait. Here’s ten cents apiece. Spend it carefully, and be sure you don’t get lost on the way.”

Susan laughed as she caught Phil by the arm and dragged him off. Lost on the way to Madame Bonnet’s! when every one in the world knew it was just across the street from the Court-House.

Once safely over the crossing Susan stopped and pointed:

“Look, Phil,” said she. “It’s the nicest place you ever knew. Here it is. Here’s Madame Bonnet’s shop.”