JEAN and Bettie flew to one window, Marjory to the other. Mabel wanted to fly, too, but she remained faithfully at her post, feeling quite cheered by her own heroism.

"It's dark gray trousers with a crease in 'em; not skirts," announced Marjory, peering under the edge of the shade.

"Probably a man from the asylum," shuddered Bettie. "Let's keep very still. He may think that this is the wrong house and go somewhere else."

"But," objected Jean, "he'll only come back again."

"Yes," sighed Bettie. "I s'pose we will have to open the door. You do it, Marjory."

"I don't want to," returned Marjory, unexpectedly shrinking. "It seems too much like giving Rosa Marie into the hands of the enemy. After all, we're going to miss her dreadfully and Mabel'll be just about broken-hearted. She does get so attached to things—Oh! He's ringing again."

"We'll have to unlock the door," sighed Jean, placing her hand on the key, "but dearie me, I feel just as Marjory does about it. Knit fast, Mabel."

The key turned in the lock, but the girls did not need to open the door; the visitor did that. Then there were rapturous cries of "Mr. Black! Mr. Black!"

Mabel wanted to greet Mr. Black, too, for there was nobody in the world that was kinder to little girls than the stout gentleman who had just opened their door; but she remembered that the soldier lady (in spite of the Dover egg-beater heart) had remained seated, placidly knitting; so Mabel likewise sat still and plied her crochet hook.

"Hi, hi!" exclaimed Mr. Black. "What are you all locked in for? And here I had to ring four times when I came with a present—apples right off the top of my own barrel. Began to be afraid I'd have to eat them all myself, you were so long letting me in."

"If we'd guessed that it was you and apples," said Marjory, "we'd have met you at the gate."

"Where's the other girl?" asked Mr. Black's big, cheery voice. "Doesn't she like apples, too?"

"In the kitchen," chorused Jean, Marjory and Bettie.

"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Black, striding kitchenward, "here she is, knitting like any old lady. Aren't you coming in here to eat apples with the rest of us?"

"Can't," mumbled Mabel.

"What's the matter, grandma?" teased Mr. Black. "Rheumatism troubling you to-day?"

"Nope," returned Mabel.

"Lost all your teeth?"

"Nope."

"Are you knitting me a pair of socks or is it mittens?"

"Just a chain," replied Mabel, suddenly beaming. "But, Mr. Black, does it really look as if I were knitting?"

"Precisely," smiled Mr. Black. "So much so that you remind me of the story of the woman who sat on the trap door and knitted—By Jove! That is a trap door! Here's the ring sticking up."

The girls shot a quick glance at the floor. Then they gazed guiltily at one another. Sure enough! The tell-tale ring stood upright, ready for use. No one had thought to conceal it.

"Is there a wounded soldier down there?" asked Mr. Black, jokingly.

"No!" shouted all four with suspicious haste.

The deep silence that followed was suddenly punctuated by a muffled sneeze from Rosa Marie. Undoubtedly, some of the pepper dislodged from the crack in the floor had sifted down to the prisoner.

The faces of the four girls flushed guiltily. Mr. Black looked wonderingly at the little group. It was plain that something was wrong. Jean, who had always met her friend's glance with level, truthful eyes, was now looking most sheepishly at her own toes. Bettie, hitherto always ready to tell the whole truth, was now fiddling evasively with the corner of her apron. Marjory's fair skin was crimson; her usually frank blue eyes were intent on something under the kitchen table.

"Is there some sort of an animal in that cellar?" demanded Mr. Black.

Rosa Marie chose this moment to give another large sneeze.

"Is it something you're afraid of?" demanded Mr. Black.

"'Fraid of losing," mumbled Mabel, shamefacedly. Poor Mabel realized only too well that she, with her knitting and her too-perfect playing of the part, had given the secret away; and she felt all the bitterness of failure.

Seizing the back of Mabel's chair, Mr. Black drew it swiftly off the trap door. In another moment, he had the door open.

Rosa Marie, blinking at the sudden light, bobbed upward. Mr. Black involuntarily started back from the opening.

"What under heavens is that!" he gasped. "A monkey?"

And, indeed, the error was a perfectly natural one, for all he had been able to see was a tousled head of hair, beneath which gleamed small black eyes.

"I should say not!" blazed Mabel. "It's my little girl—my Rosa Marie."

"Does she bite? Is she dangerous? Is that why you treat her like potatoes?"

"Most certainly not," returned Mabel, with dignity. "She's an Indian."

"Bless me!" said Mr. Black, leaning cautiously forward. "Let's have a look at her."

Now that the secret was out, everybody eagerly clutched some portion of Rosa Marie's clothing. She was drawn, with some difficulty and sundry tearings of cloth, from the "Soldier's Retreat." Mabel cuddled the blinking small person in her lap.

"Did you pick her up in the woods?" asked Mr. Black, "or did you simply kidnap her? Or, dreadful thought! Did you order her by number from some catalogue? And did they charge you full price?"

Then Mabel, helped by the other three, told all that they knew of the history of Rosa Marie; and of Mabel's affection for the queer brown baby. They told him everything. Mabel, with visions of the orphan asylum's doors yawning to engulf precious Rosa Marie, considered it a very sad story. She felt grieved and indignant because Mr. Black, instead of sympathizing, laughed until his sides shook. Even the pathetic diet of liver, codfish and prunes seemed to amuse him.

"What would you have said if your mothers had asked you where this child was?" inquired Mr. Black presently. "I mean, when you had her down cellar?"

Jean looked at Bettie, Bettie looked at Marjory, Marjory looked at Mabel.

"We never thought of that," confessed Bettie.

"Oh," groaned Mabel, holding Rosa Marie closer, "our plan isn't any good after all. We'd have to tell the truth if they asked; we always do."

"Yes," said Jean, "they'd get it out of us at once."

"Even," teased Marjory, shrewdly, "if Mabel, sitting upon that trap door, were not every bit as good as a printed sign."

"Never mind," soothed Jean, slipping an arm about Mabel's shoulders, "we'd rather be honest than smart, since we can't be both."

Mabel needed soothing. She sat still and made no sound; but large tears were rolling down her cheeks and splashing on Rosa Marie's black head. Mr. Black regarded them thoughtfully. He noticed too that Mabel's moderately white hand was closed tightly over Rosa Marie's brown fingers. It reminded him, some way, of his own youthful agony over parting with a puppy that he had not been allowed to keep—he had always regretted that puppy.

Suddenly the front door, propelled by some unseen force, opened from without to admit the three mothers and Aunty Jane, followed closely by Mr. Tucker, Dr. Bennett and two young women in nurses' uniform. They crowded into the little parlor and filled it to overflowing. None of the Cottagers said a word; but Mabel, tears still rolling down her cheeks, silently clasped both arms tightly about Rosa Marie's body. It began to look as if Rosa Marie would have to be taken by force.

"It's all arranged," announced Mrs. Bennett, breathlessly. "The asylum is willing to take her and she is to go at once with these young ladies. Come, Mabel, don't be foolish. Take your arms away. You're behaving very badly—There, there, I'll buy you something."

"You're just a little too late," said Mr. Black, keeping watchful eyes on Mabel's speaking countenance. "I've decided to take the responsibility of Rosa Marie into my own hands."