On Moses Wopp devolved the responsibility of driving the ladies of the household over the two miles of prairie lying between the Wopp ranch and that of Mrs. Mifsud. Betty, too, was going. The Ladies’ Aid did not meet every day, nor had it always on hand the alluring business of an autograph quilt, on which flourished in outlined boldness the name of every man, woman and child in the district and many out of it.

“Wartch yer team Moses,” commanded Mrs. Wopp from the back seat of the democrat.

“I am wartchin’, Mar,” replied Moses, “But Josh ’pears to be worryin’ ’bout somethin’. He’s chewin’ his bit an’ breakin’ inter a run-like every minute.”

“An’ well I know who’s makin’ him stew an’ chomp. You needn’t try to deceive yer, Mar,” chided the knowing matron.

The amused laugh of Nell Gordon, who sat beside Mrs. Wopp, floated past the youthful pair in front and perhaps helped to embue Moses with the reckless spirit of Jehu. The boy secretly admired his teacher, though he had an idea he would soundly pummel any boy with sufficient temerity to accuse him of it.

“Whoa, Josh! Whoa, Jake!” he roared, apparently exerting himself to the utmost to hold in the skittish pair, but in reality giving a few practised touches on the reins which defeated his commands.

With a start and plunge the surprised horses, now thoroughly indignant, set off at a gallop.

The trail was for the most part smooth and uneventful, but here and there the wheels of the democrat dipped into a gopher hole, causing anxiety and discomfort, especially to those in the back seat. These ladies were holding on to the side bars with utmost tenacity, yet Mrs. Wopp afterwards asserted, that when a particularly vicious depression was encountered, they were bounced violently at least three feet in the air and were considerably worried lest they should not land on the seat again. However, they displayed great fortitude under these distressing circumstances, and by the time Moses had calmed the horses to a slower pace, they had regained self-possession.

“It’s that Jake. He’s sich an ornery animule,” explained the boy, thus shamelessly vilifying a patient and much enduring character.

The Mifsud ranch-house was situated in a valley close to Ripple Creek. This stream was guarded in its serpentine course by a fringe of trees which extended several rods on each side. Moses drove up to the house door with a flourish and his passengers alighted. His mother paused a moment to urge, “Be sure an’ git yer chores done early, Moses, an’ you an’ Par be here fer supper by six o’clock.”

“Orl right, Mar,” answered Moses, dutifully, his mouth watering in anticipation of the goodies in prospect.

Several ladies of the district were already busy “scttin’ up” the quilt when Mrs. Wopp and her satellites entered the Mifsud parlor.

“Oh, aint it beaut-i-ful?” admired Betty. The creation which she admired so immensely was made of pieces of silk of many colors and was reminiscent of numerous long-defunct waists, ribbons, neckties, hats and, perhaps, even a few wedding gowns which had travelled from several corners of the globe to be welded together in this glorious finale. The pieces, irregular in shape, had been sewn together and the seams beautified by feather-stitching. On the majority of the patches were names worked in red, green or yellow, whichever color contrasted most suitably with the background. Here, for the nominal sum of ten cents, names which might otherwise have fallen into oblivion were destined to live and bloom for incalculable years. The quilt now nearing completion would, when finished by its energetic creators, be sold at auction and it was expected to bring a handsome sum. The money so realized would revive the drooping finances of the Ladies’ Aid.

“Oh, Miss Gordon, here’s my name,” announced Betty, excitedly, pointing to a central part of the quilt. “An’ here’s yours right clost to it.”

“How nice, Betty,” answered Nell, who had threaded her needle and was now prepared to join those already busily stitching away. “You and I will travel down the ages side by side.”

“But s’pose you change yer name, Miss Gordon,” whispered Betty slyly. “Then nobody’d know ’twas you.”

“I must be very careful, then, not to change it,” responded Nell, as she took the seat assigned to her.

The elders, having settled at their task, Maria Mifsud and Betty, who were considered too young and irresponsible to assist with such important work, made their way to the creek, that perennial source of amusement for the youthful. They were accompanied by Maria’s small brother, St. Elmo. Here, during the long summer afternoon they gaily disported themselves, even the rather dignified Maria entering with zest into childish fun.

In the house, meanwhile, affairs were proceeding quite as happily as those out of doors. The hostess fluctuated between the parlor and kitchen. She was preparing a repast not only for the workers present, but also for the men-folk who would presently arrive to take them to their respective homes. Excused from quilting, she nevertheless managed to spend considerable time with her guests. Mrs. Mifsud was a lady who aspired to literary attainments. She had read “Beulah,” “Vashti,” “Lucile,” “St. Elmo” and many other books of like calibre. She felt that her talents were practically wasted, living in what she termed a desert, yet she strove, when occasion offered, by elegance of deportment and conversation to enhance her gifts. She often spoke tenderly of the late Mr. Mifsud who, in spite of the fact that his face had been adorned with bristling side-whiskers of an undeniable red, had shown in other ways some signs of intelligence and feeling. He had been carried off by the shingles. According to Mrs. Mifsud’s account, her deeply-lamented spouse had considered the tall attenuated form of his wife “willowy,” her long thin black hair “a crown of glory,” her worn narrow countenance with its sharp nose and coal-black eyes, “seraphic.”

“I wonder who’ll buy this here quilt,” speculated Mrs. Wopp, as she bent over her task, “there’s shorely a great sight o’ work on it. As fer me, I aint got time to do much fancy work an’ I’d never git round to a job like this fer myself.”

“Not many of us would, Mrs. Wopp,” remarked Mrs. Bliggins, a small fair woman with a round placid countenance. “What with cookin’, an’ washin’, an’ cleanin’, an’ buttermakin’, an’ hundreds of other things, there’s not much time for fancy work.”

“Miss Gordon here, made me a harnsome lace yoke fer an underwaist, an’ give it to me fer my birthday,” volunteered Mrs. Wopp.

Mrs. Mifsud had entered the room in time to hear the last remark. Owing to the paucity of minds as keenly intellectual as her own, Mrs. Mifsud always tried to keep her remarks to a suitable level so that all present might comprehend her language. The heights, alas! must be scaled by her alone. While willing to acknowledge the substantial character of Mrs. Wopp, she considered her sadly deficient in grammar and social graces. She now interposed.

“I am given to understand by the best fashion-plates, Mrs. Wopp, that the garment you term an ‘underwaist’ is now designated a casserole.”

“Well, now, is that so? It sounds to me like a furrin word,” returned Mrs. Wopp, who admired Mrs. Mifsud’s polished utterances, while by no means undervaluing her own rhetorical gifts.

“Doubtless it is incorporated in the language of some foreign people,” conceded Mrs. Mifsud, languidly.

“Who is going to auction the quilt when it is finished?” inquired Nell Gordon, appealing to her hostess as President of the Ladies’ Aid.

“Personally, I should be agreeably disposed to requesting Mr. Wopp to officiate,” answered the lady addressed.

This remark caused Mrs. Wopp to feel considerable uneasiness. She was morally certain that her Ebenezer in his shyness would make a muddle of the sale, so she hastened to offer a suggestion.

“Why not arsk Geordie Hodgekiss. He’s sich a grand feller fer helpin’ at dances, an’ his voice ’ud most wake the dead. I feel shore he’d hev the good o’ the quilt at heart.”

This suggestion called for a general discussion. One or two very conservative ladies were not sure that a young man who so frequently played a prominent part at dances should also figure in church affairs. It might bring a curse on them. However, as there was no immediate need for decision, the subject was abandoned.

“Did you hev a good time in the city larst week, Mis’ Mifsud?” asked Mrs. Wopp, politely.

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Wopp, I was most enchantingly entertained. My brother and his wife conducted me to numerous functions. I heard a xylophone for the first time.”

Mrs. Wopp was floored. She rapidly reflected that that which Mrs. Mifsud had heard might have been anything from the “buzzin’ of a skeeter to the tootin’ of an autermobyle.”

“An’ where did you hear it, my dear?” she queried, cautiously feeling her way.

“At my brother’s Mrs. Wopp. He had just acquired it, so of course little proficiency was yet attained.”

It occurred to Mrs. Wopp that the object in question might have been a new kind of singing bird, but “least said, soonest mended.” She would ask Moses if Clarence had ever mentioned it, the very first chance she had. None of the other ladies present assayed to join in the conversation, so perhaps most of them also were mystified. Airs. Wopp looked hard at Nell Gordon. Of course she knew what Mrs. Mifsud meant, but she seemed completely absorbed in turning a difficult corner in the quilt. A welcome interruption occurred.

“How is your Ada since she had the jaundice, Mrs. Stolway?” inquired Airs. Bliggins.

“None too strong. But she’s picking up since the doctor gave her a tonic,” was the reply.

“It’s a terrible disease, shorely,” interpolated Mrs. Wopp. “Ebenezer’s sisten-in-law’s cousin hed it, an’ fer a long time she was as yaller as a biled turnip. Her feelin’s was low, too, an’ she thort she was goin’ to die. She made her will, leavin’ her clothes an’ her cat, which was all she hed, to an ole men’s refuge. But lan’ sakes! she’s alive yet an’ peart as a robin. She got a set o’ false teeth an’ a switch jist larst month.”

Mrs. Mifsud who had listened to this recital with polite interest, now excused herself on the plea of urgent duties in the kitchen.

“I see two rigs comin’,” announced Mrs. Wopp, suddenly. From where she sat she could view through the window a considerable portion of the trail. “The men’ll soon orl be here, so s’posin’ we roll up the quilt. Ef everybody’s back’s achin’ like mine they’ll be glad to quit.”

Betty and Maria, whose reviving interest in the quilt had drawn them from their play to the somewhat crowded parlor, now reported several vehicles to be in sight. They hastened with this information to Mrs. Mifsud in the kitchen, that important domain whence a savory odor had been issuing for some time.

“Clarence will tell the men where to instal their teams,” the hostess reflected. The boy, who had fought shy of this mere woman’s party, had spent the afternoon in the barn.

“Maria, where is St. Elmo?” asked Mrs. Mifsud, as with flushed face she basted some fowls in the oven.

“We left him by the creek, Ma, playing in the sand,” was the reply. “When Betty and me tried to make him come in he slapped us.”

“Go and bring him now, so you can renovate his appearance before supper,” directed the mother.

Maria, accompanied by Betty, repaired to the spot where they had left the little boy. He was not there. In vain they shouted and called his name.

“He must have gone to Clarence in the barn,” concluded Maria, setting off at a run.

Clarence, however, when questioned, declared, “I haven’t seen the little shaver since dinner.”

Maria now began to get alarmed, and her anxiety being communicated to Clarence and Betty, the three young people set off in a combined search.

Still no St. Elmo. They proceeded a considerable distance down the creek.

“Look he’s been here,” said Betty, pointing to a small footprint in the moist soil, “An’ he’s headed down the crick.”

“We’ll have to go and tell Ma,” said Maria.

As they neared the house with their disquieting news, Mr. Wopp and Moses were just alighting from the democrat, while Mrs. Mifsud at the open door stood calling out cheery greetings.

“St. Elmo’s lost, Ma,” wailed Maria. “We can’t find him and he’s wandered down the creek.”

Mrs. Mifsud threw up her hands in dismay.

“My poor lamb, my little darling,” she said, speaking with difficulty, “There are so many lynxes in the woods, and he’s so afraid of them. If he meets one he’ll die of fright.”

“Moses, put the hosses in the stable an’ fuller me. We’ll soon find him, Mis’ Mifsud,” said Mr. Wopp, his kindliness asserting itself in this crisis. “Come on, Clarence, an’ Mis’ Mifsud you send the other men along ’s soon ’s they git here. Jist you rest easy, we’ll soon be back with yer boy.”