NOW that the burden of caring for Rosa Marie was shifted to older and more competent shoulders, the Cottagers' thoughts returned to their school-work. It was time. Never had lessons been so neglected. Never before had four moderately intelligent little girls seemed so stupid. But of course with their minds filled with Rosa Marie, it had been impossible to keep the rivers of South America from lightmindedly running over into Asia, or the products of British Columbia from being exported from Calcutta.

These fortunate girls attended a beautiful school. That is, the building was beautiful. It stood right in the middle of a great big grassy block, entirely surrounded, as Bettie put it, by street, which of course added greatly to its dignity. It was built of "raindrop" sandstone, a most interesting building material because no two blocks were alike and also because each stone looked as if it had just been sprinkled with big, spattering drops of rain. It was hard when looking at it to believe that it wasn't raining, and certain naughty youngsters delighted in fooling new teachers by pointing out the deceiving drops that flecked the balustrade. Perhaps even the grass was fooled by this semblance to showers for, in summer time, it grew so thriftily that no one had to be warned to "Keep off," so a great many little people frolicked in the schoolyard even during vacation.

Of course the Dandelion Cottagers were not in the same classes in school. Jean, being the oldest, the most sedate and the most studious, was almost through the eighth grade. Marjory, being naturally very bright and also moderately industrious, was in the seventh. Mabel and Bettie were not exactly anywhere. You see, Bettie had had to stay out so often to keep the next to the youngest Tucker baby from falling downstairs, that naturally she had dropped behind all the classes that she had ever started with; and Mabel—of course Mabel meant well, but when she studied at all it was usually the lesson for some other day; for this blundering maiden never could remember which was the right page. But one day she happened by some lucky accident to stumble upon the right one, and on that solitary occasion she recited so very brilliantly that Miss Bonner and all the pupils dropped their books to listen in astonishment, and Mabel was marked one hundred.

But in spite of this high mark in good black ink (if one stood less than seventy-five red ink was employed) the thing did not happen again that fall because Mabel was too busy bringing up Rosa Marie to study even the wrong lesson. However, she was exceedingly fond of pretty Miss Bonner and, having learned the exact date of that young woman's birthday, hoped to appease her by a gift to be paid for by contributions from all the pupils in Miss Bonner's room. Mabel herself received and cared for the slowly accumulating funds, and the little brown purse was becoming almost as weighty a responsibility as Rosa Marie had been. Sometimes it rested in Mabel's untrustworthy pocket, sometimes in her rather untidy desk, sometimes under her pillow in her own room at home. One day Mrs. Bennett found it there.

"Why, Mabel!" she exclaimed. "Where did all this money come from? I know you don't possess any."

"It's the M. B. B. P. F.," responded Mabel, who was brushing her hair with evident enjoyment and two very handsome military brushes. "I guess I'd better put it in my pocket."

"The what?" asked puzzled Mrs. Bennett.

"The Miss Bonner Birthday Present Fund. I'm the Cus—Cus—Custodium."

"The what kind of cuss?" asked Dr. Bennett, who had just poked his head in at the door to ask if, by any chance, Mabel had seen anything of his hair brushes.

"The Custodium," replied Mabel, with dignity.

"I think she means 'Custodian.'" explained Mrs. Bennett, rescuing the brushes.

"Well," retorted Mabel, "the toad part was all right if the tail wasn't. Marjory named me that, and she's always using bigger words than she ought to."

"So is somebody else," said Dr. Bennett, forgetting to scold about the brushes. "But I think the 'Custodium' had better hurry, or she'll be late for school."

That was Friday, and the little brown purse contained two dollars and forty-seven cents, which seemed a tremendous sum to inexperienced Mabel.

She remembered afterwards how very big, imposing and substantial the school building had looked that morning as she approached it and noticed some strangers fingering the "rain-drops" to see if they were real. Indeed, everybody, from the largest tax-payer down to the smallest pupil, was proud of that building because it was so big and because there was no more rain-drop sandstone left in the quarry from which it had been taken. Even thoughtless Mabel always swelled with pride when tourists paused to comment on the queer, spotted appearance of those massive walls. She meant to point that building out some day to her grandchildren as the fount of all her learning; for the huge, solid building looked as if it would certainly outlast not only Mabel's grandchildren but all their great-great-grandchildren as well. But it didn't.

The catastrophe came on Saturday. Afterwards, everybody in Lakeville was glad, since the thing had to happen at all, that the day was Saturday, for no one liked to think what might have happened had the trouble come on a schoolday. It was also a Saturday in the first week of November, which was not quite so fortunate, as there was a stiff north wind.

At two o'clock that afternoon the streets were almost deserted, but weatherproof Dick Tucker, with his hands in his pockets, was going along whistling at the top of his very good lungs. By the merest chance he glanced at the wide windows of Lakeville's most pretentious possession, the big Public School building.

From four of the upper windows floated thin, softly curling plumes of gray smoke. The windows were closed, but the smoke appeared to be leaking out from the surrounding frames.

"Hello!" muttered Dick, suddenly shutting off his whistle. "That looks like smoke. The janitor must be rebuilding the furnace fire. But why should smoke—I guess I'll investigate."

The puzzled boy ran up the steps, pulled the vestibule door open and eagerly pressed his nose against the plate-glass panel of the inner door, which was locked. Through the glass, however, he could plainly see that the wide corridor was thick with smoke. He could even smell it.

"Great guns!" exclaimed Dick. "There's things doing in there! That furnace never smokes as hard as all that and besides the Janitor always has Saturday afternoons off. Perhaps the basement door is unlocked."

Dick ran down the steps to find that door, too, securely fastened.

"I guess," said Dick, with another look at the curling smoke about the upper windows, "the thing for me to do is to turn in an alarm."

Dick happened to know where the alarm-box was situated, so, feeling most important, yet withal strangely shaky as to legs, the lad made for the corner, a good long block distant, smashed the glass according to directions, and sent in the alarm, a thing that he had always longed to do.

Five minutes later, the big red hosecart, with gong ringing, firemen shouting and dogs barking, was dashing up the street. The hook and ladder company followed and a meat wagon, or rather a meat-wagon horse, galloped after. The foundry whistle began to give the ward number in long, melancholy, terrifying toots and the hosehouse bell joined in with a mad clamor. People poured from the houses along the hosecart's route, for in Lakeville it was customary for private citizens to attend all fires.

Dick, feeling most important, stood on the schoolhouse steps and pointed upward. The hosecart stopped with a jerk that must have surprised the horses, firemen leaped down and in a twinkling the foremost had smashed in the big glass door.

"It's a fire all right," said he.

Meanwhile the Janitor, chopping wood in his own backyard (which was his way of enjoying his afternoons off), had listened intently to the fire alarm.

"Six-Two," said he, suddenly dropping his ax. "Guess I'll have a look at that fire. That's pretty close to my school."