“Here is your tin pail, Susan. Try not to lose the cover, child.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“And I’ve put your slippers in this little bag. Be sure to bring them home again with you.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“And tell Miss Liza she is to start you home at half-past three.

“Tell her I said so. She will have had quite enough of you children by that time, but she is so good-natured she would let you stay till Doomsday if you liked.” And Grandmother, straightening Susan’s hat, smiled down into the expectant little face looking up into hers.

“Yes, Grandmother,” answered Susan for the last time, and ran off to join Phil, who, also provided with a pail and a pair of bedroom slippers, stood waiting in the lane.

“Isn’t this nice?” asked Susan as, clashing their pails cheerfully, they moved briskly along the road. “I do love to go to Miss Liza’s. When she lived in your house I used to go over every day, and sometimes when she was baking she would let me help. She had little wee cake pans of a fish, and a leaf, and a star.” And Susan smiled at happy memories of Miss Liza’s baking-days.

“Will we make cakes to-day, do you think?” inquired Phil, who, invited with Susan to spend the day at Miss Eliza Tallman’s, was making his first social call of the season and was not quite sure what was expected of him. For all he knew to the contrary, it was customary to carry a tin pail and bedroom slippers when going visiting for the day.

“I don’t believe so,” returned Susan doubtfully. “Miss Liza doesn’t live alone now. She lives with her niece, Miss Lunette. And Miss Lunette can’t bear the tiniest bit of noise. That’s why we brought our slippers. We have to put them on the minute we get there, and walk on tiptoe, and just whisper.” And Susan’s voice sank mysteriously as she related their programme for the day.

Phil looked downcast. The prospect of whispering and walking on tiptoe was not in the least pleasing to him.

“Is Miss Lunette sick?” he inquired soberly.

“Oh, yes,” Susan assured him, “she is. I heard Grandmother and Miss Liza talking. No one knows just what is the matter with her, but she must have good things to eat, and some one to wait on her, and not one bit of noise. And I heard Grandmother and Grandfather talking, too,” went on the “little pitcher.” “Grandmother said, ‘Liza’s a saint on earth,’ and Grandfather said, ‘In my opinion, all Miss Lunette needs is a little hard work!’ I don’t know just what they meant. But, anyway, we are going to fill our pails with currants and raspberries. Miss Liza said so.”

Phil brightened for a moment, but his face clouded again and he stopped in the road.

“Can’t we shout before we get there, Susan?” he asked plaintively. “I feel just like shouting to-day.”

“I do, too,” agreed Susan willingly. “Let’s shout now where there is no one to stop us.” And putting down their bundles so that they might swing their arms as well, the children opened their mouths and shouted until they could shout no more.

On either side of the road lay a dense little wood. The noise of the shouting woke the echoes and startled the birds who rose in the air with a whirr of wings and then settled down again. There was the crackling of underbrush and the rustle of leaves, but neither of the children saw a cautious little figure, with brown face and tumbled black hair, peering at them from behind a tree. His hungry eyes traveled to their pails and stopped there.

“I’ll race you!” shouted Phil suddenly. And he was off, with Susan close behind, their empty pails swinging as they ran.

The little brown figure turned and disappeared among the tree-trunks.

Miss Eliza Tallman stood waiting for her guests on the steps of the white cottage that was separated from the street by an old-fashioned flower garden, now glowing in its prime.

Miss Liza herself was as wholesome and sweet and crisp as the row of pinks that bordered the walk and sent their spicy odors out upon the warm summer air. Miss Liza was round and plump. Her crinkly brown hair, with only a few threads of gray, was drawn into a round little knob at the back of her head. Her eyes, round and blue, looked out pleasantly from behind round gold spectacles. She stood, absently smoothing down her stiffly starched white apron, until she caught sight of the children, and then she waved her hand in greeting.

“I’m glad to see you,” she called softly.

And something in the quiet voice made Susan remember to close the gate behind her gently instead of letting it swing shut with a slam.

“Sit right down here on the porch steps and put on your slippers. Miss Lunette feels right well to-day, and she wants you to come up and see her before dinner.”

And Miss Liza smiled so warmly at little Phil that he cheered up immediately. Going to see Miss Lunette couldn’t be very dreadful if Miss Liza looked so pleasant about it.

Up the steep stairs they toiled softly, and were ushered into a room so darkened that, coming from the glare of the sun outside, it was at first difficult to see anything.

But Phil at length made out a figure, wrapped in a shawl this warm summer day, seated in a cushioned rocking-chair, and felt a cool, slim hand take his own for an instant. He looked timidly into the face above him and saw with a lightened heart that Miss Lunette was not dreadful at all, that she didn’t look in the least as he had expected and feared to see her look.

And in the fullness of his heart, little Phil spoke out.

“Why, you are pretty,” said he to Miss Lunette.

Miss Lunette’s pale, thin face flushed with pleasure, and she laid a hand lightly upon Philip’s head.

“I feel so well to-day,” said she graciously, “that I want to show you children some toys that I’ve been making. Some day I mean to sell them in the city, but it won’t do any harm, I suppose, to show them to you beforehand. It is what we call wool-work,” added she carefully.

On a table, drawn close to Miss Lunette’s chair, stood a group of animals made of worsted. There were yellow chickens standing unsteadily upon their toothpick legs. Lopsided white sheep faced a pair of stout rabbits evidently suffering from the mumps. A dull brown rooster suddenly blossomed out into a gorgeous tail of red and green and purple yarn.

For a grown person it would be difficult to imagine who, in the city, would purchase these strange specimens of natural history, but such a disloyal thought did not occur to the children. They admired the toys to Miss Lunette’s complete satisfaction, and they had their reward. For Miss Lunette took from the shelf under the table a book, a home-made book, between whose pasteboard covers had been sewed leaves of stiff white paper.

“As a special treat,” said Miss Lunette sweetly to her round-eyed audience, “I am going to show you my book.”

She paused for an instant to allow Susan and Phil to feast their eyes upon the book in silence.

“This is the cover,” said she at last, “and I made the picture myself.”

The picture was that of a rigid little boy, in a paper soldier cap, stiffly blowing upon a tin trumpet. The picture was carefully colored with red and blue crayons.

“Oh, it’s pretty,” said Susan, in honest admiration. She meant to make a book herself as soon as she reached home.

“What’s inside?” asked Philip. He felt sorry for that little boy, who, as long as he lived with Miss Lunette, might never make a noise.

“I think the cover ought to be bright and gay, so that it will attract the children,” went on the authoress. “Don’t you think so, too?”

Yes, Susan and Phil thought so, too.

“But what’s inside?” asked Philip again.

How was that little boy going to play soldier, and never once shout or fire off a gun?

“The name of the book is ‘Scripture for Little Ones,’” continued Miss Lunette. “I will read parts of it to you if you like.” And opening at page one, she began to read.

A is for Absalom who hung by his hair

From a tree—How painful to be left swinging there.

B is for Baalam—He had a donkey who spoke—

If we heard it to-day we would think it a joke.

C is for Cain—His brother Abel he slew—

He was a murderer—May it never be true of you!

D is for Daniel who, in the lion’s den,

Suffered no harm from beasts or from men.

E is for—

But whom E stood for the children never knew, for Miss Liza appeared in the doorway bearing a tray.

“Here is your dinner, Lunette,” said she gently. “Children, you creep downstairs now. You don’t want to overdo, Lunette,” she added, as she placed the invalid’s substantial dinner before her. “You’ve been talking for an hour now.”

Downstairs Miss Liza closed the stairway door that led up to Miss Lunette’s room.

“Now you can talk out as loud as you like,” said she, “and you won’t disturb any one. What’s the news up at your house, Susan? Have you and Phil found the buried ten cents yet?”

No, Susan had forgotten all about it.

So, as she stepped about putting their dinner on the table, Miss Liza told Phil the story of the buried ten cents.

“You know, Phil,” said she, “you are living in my house,—the house I was born and brought up in. And one day, when I was a little girl eight years old, my uncle, who had a farm a mile or so away, drove past our house and saw me in the road.

“‘Here’s ten cents,’ said he. ‘Five for you and five for Jim.’ Jim was my brother. Now I was a selfish little thing,” said Miss Liza, shaking her head, “and what did I do but dig a hole under the kitchen window and put the ten cents in it. Some day, when Jim was out of the way, I meant to dig it up and spend it all on myself. But do you know, I never have found that money from that day to this. I dug, and Jim dug, and Susan here has dug, and I suppose you will try now. If you find it, be sure you let me know.”

“I will find it,” said Phil, excited. “I will. You see.”

Miss Liza nodded wisely.

“That is what Susan thought,” she answered. “Now draw up to the table. I hope you are hungry.” And Miss Liza smiled hospitably round at her guests.

They were hungry. The good dinner disappeared from their plates like magic, but the crowning touch came when the little cakes shaped like fish and leaves and stars appeared upon the table.

“I told Phil about them,” Susan repeated over and over; “I told him, I told him.”

After dinner, Susan and Phil went into the garden to fill their pails with currants and raspberries. It must be admitted that they picked more raspberries than currants, and that they put almost as many berries into their mouths as into their pails.

They were hard at work when Miss Liza joined them.

“It’s half-past three,” said she, shading her eyes with her hands and looking up at the sky. “And if your Grandmother meant what she said, you ought to start for home. But what I’m thinking of is the weather. It’s clear enough overhead, but low down there are black clouds that look like a shower to me. I don’t know whether you ought to set out or not.”

The clouds looked very far away to the children, and, now that their pails were almost full, it seemed a pity not to stay a little longer.

But Miss Liza took one more look round at the sky and made up her mind once for all.

“You must go right along,” she decided, “and hurry, too. I shan’t have an easy moment till I think you are safe at home. Here are your hats and slippers. Miss Lunette is napping, now, so I will say good-bye for you. Hurry right along, children, and don’t stop to play by the way.”

And all in a twinkling Susan and Phil found themselves walking down the village street, with Miss Liza at the gate, waving good-bye with one hand and motioning them along with the other.

The sun was shining as they left the village and turned into the country road that led past home, but there were low mutterings and rumblings and Phil stopped to listen.

“There’s a wagon on the bridge,” said he. “Maybe they will give us a ride.”

“It’s thunder,” returned Susan, more weather-wise than he. “Listen. It’s getting dark, too. I wish a wagon would come along.”

But there was no sound of wheels; only rumblings of thunder growing ever louder, the rustle of leaves in the rising wind, and the call of the birds to one another as they hastened to shelter from the coming storm.

“It’s blue sky overhead, anyway,” said Susan. “Let’s run.”

“It’s raining,” announced Phil, heavily burdened with slippers and pail. “I hear it on the leaves. I can’t run. Let’s sit down under a tree.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Susan, seizing his hand. “Come on! It’s blue sky overhead. I want to get home to Grandmother. I don’t like it in the woods in the rain. Come on! Do hurry—Run!”

The tiny patch of blue sky upon which Susan had pinned her faith had been rapidly growing smaller. Now it was altogether out of sight. There was a sharp flash of lightning, a loud clap of thunder, and down came the rain like the bursting of a waterspout.

“Oh, run, Philly, run!” called Susan, darting to the side of the road. “Come here with me under the trees.”

A flash of lightning and long roll of thunder came just at that moment, and put to flight all Phil’s small stock of courage. He was frightened and tired, and he could endure no more. He dropped his pail of precious berries to the ground, he let fall his slippers, and, standing in the downpour, he lifted up his voice and wept.

“Mamma, Mamma!” wailed Phil. “I want Mamma!”

Poor Susan was distracted. Her lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears, but she bravely ran out into the road again and caught Phil by the arm.

“Come, Philly, come,” entreated Susan.

But Phil, bewildered by the dazzling flashes of light and peals of thunder, was beside himself with fear. He jerked his arm away and ran screaming up the road, splashing through puddles as he went.

“Oh, Philly! Oh, Grandfather! Oh, Grandfather!” wailed Susan. She felt that the end of the world had come.

But deliverance was at hand.

Out of the woods appeared a man and a boy. The man easily overtook Phil and lifted him in his arms.

“Don’t be afraid, missy,” called he to Susan above Phil’s screams. “Come along with me.”

The boy had gathered up the scattered bundles, and he now grasped Susan’s hand, and so, dripping with rain, the little party vanished into the shelter of the woods.