All the pretty pink color which had hitherto tinged the lady's cheek had vanished, and she visibly trembled, so that Katharine darted forward to her support. But Aunt Eunice raised her hand protestingly, and tottered forward to the nearest chair. With dry, white lips, she asked in a voice so low it could barely be heard:

"Montgomery Sturtevant, where—where did you find that?"

Her appearance alarmed both the children, who fancied she, also, was about to faint as Moses had done, yet she did not fall nor did her gaze waver; and impelled by its sternness to make reply, Monty finally stammered:

"H-h-h-hay-m-m-ow."

"Hay-mow! Impossible!" returned Miss Maitland, becoming a bit more natural in appearance, while Kate indignantly turned upon her playmate, demanding and denying:

"How dare you? He didn't. 'Twas I—under a tree in your own big forest. I dug it up and fetched it—he fetched—there wasn't a hay-mow anywhere near it. Oh, Aunt Eunice, it's the Magic Treasure. It holds the key to all the world—to all the good things in the world, anyway. And you're the wonderful Wise Woman will open it and let us use the gold and diamonds and precious stones to make all the poor people rich and glad. 'Tis yours, I know, and quick, quick!"

With a bound she seized the box from Monty's hands and brought it to the disturbed lady, who, when the girl would have placed it on her lap, recoiled as from some venomous thing.

"No, no! Don't bring it to me. I wouldn't touch it. It has wrought evil already, and so great—"

Then she abruptly paused and steadfastly regarded the quaint old casket which, as Katharine had discovered, seemed to have neither lock nor fastening, and was in itself a marvellous piece of mechanism. As she gazed her thought was busy as painful, but out of the chaos one idea at last grew clear: The Brass Bound Box must be safely hidden and none must know that it had ever been found. To hide it she would have to touch it, no matter how unwillingly. But the secret of its existence must be kept, although that secret was already in the possession of these two others.

She called them to her and held out her hands now for the box. They approached her with a sort of awe, for there was that still in her face which altered its ordinary kindliness. Not that it was unkind, for there was even more than usual sweetness in the glance she gave Montgomery, yet he felt as if he had been guilty of some terrible sin without in the least knowing what or why.

"Children, you are young to be asked to promise so serious a thing as I now ask you, but you must promise it, and you must keep your word. Will you?"

"I never broke my word in my life, Aunt Eunice! I wouldn't begin now after I've grown to be such a big girl," said Katharine, promptly. "But it's honest to tell you I hate promises, and I never feel so tempted to lie as when I've made one. I'd rather not promise, if you please; and I guess—I guess I'd rather not hear any secret. I'll go out and let you tell it to Monty alone."

Montgomery shot out a restraining hand and clutched her vanishing skirts, while a faint smile stole to Miss Maitland's lips at this evidence of moral cowardice. The boy felt, and with justice, that it was "Kitty Quixote" who had got him into this scrape, with her wild woodland adventures and her fairy-tales, and that it was but fair she should share in it.

"Unfortunately, you already know it. What you must promise is—that you will never, never speak of this box or its strange reappearance to any person, young or old. I shall put it out of sight where it will not be easily found again, and then forget it. You must forget it, too. You are Sturtevant and Maitland, descendants of honorable men and women, and for the sake of your forebears you must hide this thing."

It was all so solemn that Katharine shivered, yet could not help wondering a little. "Forebears"—that meant dead people; and how could it harm people already dead to have that box found, even supposing it to be full of poisons or other dreadful stuff, as she now began to imagine?

Now, if Kate merely shivered and speculated, poor Montgomery was in an ague. When he fixed his great eyes upon Aunt Eunice's face they were so full of terror that she pitied him, and tried to comfort, saying:

"Don't look so frightened, dear. It's only to keep from speaking of what has happened this morning. That's easy, isn't it? Besides, you are so young you will not remember long. Other things will drive it from your minds. At least, I trust so. In any case, you are in honor bound."

With that she rose as if to dismiss them, and went away toward the seldom used west wing of the great house, carrying the box with her. Her step was no longer uncertain, but firm and decided. A terrible situation had suddenly confronted her, and made, for a moment, even her clear judgment dim; but she had swiftly weighed the consequences, pro and con, and had settled the wisest course to follow.

Left alone, these young "descendants of honorable men and women" regarded one another in dismay; and Montgomery was the first to speak, crying out with all the intensity words could express:

"Oh, ain't it a-a-aw-ful!"

"Huh! I don't see anything 'awful' about it, 'cept your hanging on to me and making me stay whether or no. That was a dirty mean trick—keeping me here when I might have got away without hearing."

"Y-y-you knew it a'ready. An' it was in the h-h-h-hay-mow. I'd hid it there the min-ute I g-g-got to the barn, waitin' for y-y-you. But come out there n-now. I've got s-s-s-somethin' to tell you," said the unhappy lad, far too disturbed to resent her sharpness. At which she became instantly regretful, and slipped her arm consolingly within his, as they walked toward the great barn, which had from the first seemed to the city girl the most delightful of structures.

It was further proof of Monty's dejection that he did not jerk his arm away, nor would he have cared at all who saw him thus being petted by a "girl." However, once arrived at the great sun-lighted doorway, and secure even from Susanna's ears, the trouble came out.

"Oh, w-w-what shall I do? I've told it all over t-t-town, a'ready, an' it's no s-s-se—cret at all!"

Katharine stuck her arms akimbo and stared mercilessly at the abject creature before her, who seemed to droop and wilt under her gaze as if he were sinking through the hay-strewn floor.

"You told it?" she repeated, indignantly.

Monty nodded mournful acquiescence.

"Then you—you—you ought to be set washing dishes again, and kept at it for the rest of your life. So there."

One blue eye was raised a trifle in surprise. How in the world had she known that? He didn't remember mentioning the cause of his recent retirement from public life, indeed, he was positive that this had been a "secret" really worth keeping. However, it didn't matter now. Nothing mattered except that he, who came of such "honorable" people, had betrayed his friends.

"W-w-what'll happen, s'pose?"

"I don't know," answered Kate, slowly. "Something dreadful ought. For before it was Aunt Eunice's secret the box was my secret, too. I was the first who should have told it, and only to her. You had no right to speak of it till I gave you leave."

"Un-un-uncle Mose broke his bones, and I h-h-had to go 'round, didn't I? An' when I told about him the o-o-other j-j-j-just slipped out itself. T-t-t-that's all."

"Humph! 'All!' And more mischief done than you or I can guess, maybe. For though I can't imagine why Aunt Eunice should be so overcome and anxious at sight of just a box, there must be some good reason. She has seen that box before and it doesn't suggest pleasant memories to her. That's plain. She would have been glad if it had never been found, and all my pretty romance about treasure and helping people turns out just horrid. I wish I had never gone to that wood, then things wouldn't have happened. The box would have stayed in its hole, I wouldn't have hurried home with it by the long wrong way and met you, and poor Uncle Moses wouldn't have followed nor fallen over that root. Aunt Eunice would have been like the saying, 'Where ignorance is bliss,' and wouldn't have been worried so, and we shouldn't have been forbidden to tell things that I wouldn't have cared to tell, if I hadn't been forbidden. And, oh, dear! What a terrible hard world it is! and what a lovely old barn! I think—Do you suppose I could climb up that hay-mow? Susanna's sure there are hens' nests 'stolen' up there, and she needs the eggs. I wish we could find them. I wish we could do something—anything that is pleasant and so helps us to 'forget,' as Aunt Eunice wished us to do. But I guess I can't climb much. I never had a chance to try."

"I'll s-s-show you!" cried the lad, eagerly, and delighted to think there was something in which he could excel this clever city girl. With a bound he had risen from the floor, where both had sat during the last of their talk, had promptly spit upon his palms and rubbed them together, then leaped to catch an upright beam. "Shinnying" up to the slippery mow with real agility, he there paused and regarded Katharine with an expression of great pride. But instead of admiration her mobile countenance expressed only disgust, and to his question, "H-h-how's that?" she retorted: "Nasty, dirty thing! You go wash your hands before you touch a single one of our eggs!"

"'O-o-our' eggs!" repeated Monty, scornfully, to hide his own chagrin. "H-h-how long since th-th-they were 'ours'?"

"Oh, dear! Do come down and wash, and let's quit quarrelling. Seems as if we never could agree about things, yet we must. We've got to be friends if we have to keep Aunt Eunice's secret, for even though you did tell it before it was hers you needn't make it worse and speak of it again. If anybody asks you about it now, all you must do is to keep perfectly still. Not say a word. Let them think what they please, but don't you talk. Now, isn't there any other way to go upon the hay except by that beam? The Widow Sprigg said she was going up there herself soon as she got time, and I'm sure she doesn't do what you did."

"C-c-couldn't do it with—out," asserted the climber, referring to the moistening operation.

"I mean she would never 'shinny' up a straight, slivery beam."

"Huh! I s'pose there's a l-l-lad-der, do for g-g-girls," asserted Montgomery, indifferently.

"Then show it to me and I'll begin to teach you how not to stammer."

He looked at her sharply, but there was such perfect sincerity in her face that he accepted her promise joyfully, and led her to the rear of the barn where a rude but strong ladder led from the "bay" at the bottom to the top of the hay, almost touching the roof. Jumping from the higher board floor of the barn into this bay Montgomery ran nimbly up the perpendicular ladder, which was so straight it seemed fairly to tilt backwards, like an overerect person, and Katharine followed as best she might. She was afraid but determined, and, though the slippery blades of the dried grass fell over the rounds of the ladder, making foothold difficult, she managed to reach the level beneath the eaves and was pulled over into safety by the boy.

"Isn't this delightful? I was never in such a lovely place before, so smelly and sweet and warm. I don't wonder hens like it up here, though it's scarey coming up. Don't you think so?" she asked, looking around upon the lofty mow with curious gaze.

"S-s-scarey? Pooh! That's 'cause you're a girl. G-g-g-irls wasn't made to climb. B-boys were. I can climb first-rate. Yes, sir. I c-c-can climb anything. I can cl-cl-climb any tree in Aunt Eu-Eu-Eunice's woods. I can climb any tree in Deacon Meakin's woods. I—I can climb all the trees in Sq-Sq-Squ-Squire Petti—john's woods, top the mountain. I can climb any tree in the whole w-w-world! I c-c-co-could climb the church steeple!"

Katharine listened to this boastful statement with interest. She not only believed it, but had observed that as Montgomery neared his climax his stammering became less pronounced. This coincided with the Cyclopedia and suggested the first lesson she should give. But she had herself "climbed" to this height for another matter besides instruction. To descend with a quantity of fresh eggs for Susanna's depleted larder would be to bring one ray of sunshine into that darkened house. For as the widow had pertinently inquired of the hired man, only the night before, "How can a body cook good victuals without ingrejunce? An' what's the greatest ingrejunce in punkin pies if it ain't eggs? Or cake, uther?" to which Moses had jocularly replied: "It might be punkin or flour." And again, Susanna: "My suz! But you air smart, ain't ye? Well, eggs I haven't, an' eggs I shall an' must. An' up that loft I go, tromple or no tromple the hay, an' before the sun sets another time on this deceivin' world."

Therefore, eggs Katharine would obtain and then instruct; and, announcing this decision, Montgomery did his best to aid her in the search. Nor was it unsuccessful. There were three nests, safely placed beneath the eaves where their builders had supposed in their hen-minds that no human being would ever come, while another adventurous fowl had lazily scooped a hole in the very centre of the mow and deposited her eggs. In any case, eggs there were in abundance, and, having filled Montgomery's pockets and Kate's hat with them, they took their own well-earned rest upon the fragrant hay beneath the slatted window.

Sunshine and air came through it, and the song of birds in the trees; and beyond another distant wide-opened shutter they could see the roofs of village homes and the spire of the church which Monty felt he could so easily climb. There, all anxiety forgotten, they dreamed dreams and saw visions; and in each and all they were both to be good and great and world beneficent.

"I shall be a great artist some day. As great as my father, or maybe, if one could be—even greater. Because, you see, poor papa had to work for money, not for love of his art. I've heard him say so, time and time again. When he wanted to paint great pictures he had to paint mean little ones, such as common persons liked and would buy. 'Pot boilers' he called them, because they brought the cash, the 'fuel,' to keep the 'pot' a-boiling. Course, we had to have clothes and a house and things to eat, and nobody to buy them except papa darling. Maybe, up in heaven, he is painting his 'great picture' now. What do you suppose?" asked Katharine, gazing through the slats at the blue sky overhead.

"I d-d-don't know much about heaven. I never had time to think. T-t-t-th-there's always so much doin'," answered Monty. Yet, following Katharine's rapturous gaze skyward, his own blue eyes had filled with dreamy speculation, and he began to picture to himself the wonders of that world beyond Marsden village which he meant sometime to find.

"B-b-but I'll tell you somethin', Katy Maitland. I'm not goin' to stay here always. I'm goin' to be a big man and—and do things," he observed, after a prolonged meditation.

"How big? What things?"

"Oh! Big as they g-g-grow. Big as the postmaster. B-b-big as Sq-Sq-Squ-Squire Petti—john. I'm goin' to be either a s-s-sailor, or—maybe P-P-Pr-President."

"If you're President you'll be a—a, what is it they call them? Politicalers, I guess," returned the girl.

"P-p-p-pol-er-tic—ian," corrected Montgomery, with stuttering eagerness.

Katharine accepted the correction without comment, though her lips twitched and her eyes twinkled; and after a pause she continued: "Politicians can do things. They can get folks elected. Anybody to anything. Plain storekeepers to be postmasters; postmasters to be Senators; Senators to be Presidents; and—and hired men to be constables. Can't they?"

"Y-y-yes. Why?"

Katharine sat upright so suddenly that her hat rolled over and the eggs spilled from it. However, the hay was soft, and no harm was done, nor was her enthusiasm cooled by a trifle of that sort. Clasping her hands ecstatically, she exclaimed:

"We must do it! You and I must get Uncle Moses Jones elected constable. Now, while he's sick, for a surprise. Won't that be grand?"

"Grand!" assented Montgomery, with such eagerness that he forgot to trip in his speech. Then doubt and stammering returned together. "W-w-we c-c-c-couldn't."

"Yes, we could, if we had any s-s-sp-spunk!" retorted Katharine, heartlessly. "Folks have to be little politicians before they are big ones, I suppose, just like children before they are grown-ups. Well, you're a little politician now, a teeny tiny one, and it will be just splendid practice for you to get a village constable elected. I believe that although Uncle Moses and even Aunt Eunice speak so proudly of that office, that it isn't as great as some others. I don't know, and I wouldn't care at all except for him. But we must do it. I've heard him talking with Widow Sprigg how that now the 'law was changed,' 'town meeting' was no 'great shakes' any more, for the Presidents and constables all got mixed in together till a 'body couldn't tell t'other from which.' For his part he'd 'ruther be 'lected in the spring when crops was growin' an' tramps a-trampin', though if he was forced into it, better one time than never,' and a lot more funny grumble. She told him not to worry, that he'd never be 'forced,' much as he'd like it. I've decided that he must be elected, and without any 'forcing,' and I've the splendidest plan you ever heard. First, I'll give you a lesson. Then I'll tell you, else you'll believe I'm forgetting my promise. I'm not. I'm only considering the best way to begin. Well, Montgomery Sturtevant, that bad habit of yours comes from laziness and nervousness. Pure laziness, pure nervousness," she added, with emphasis.

"D-d-don't neither!" denied the stammerer, indignantly. "Ain't got no nerves. G-gr-gramma says so, and she knows. She's older 'n you, an' she's got 'em worst kind. Always gets 'em when I play the f-f-fiddle."

"Maybe there are two kinds of nerves. She doesn't stammer. Besides the Cyclopedia said so, and it tells the truth. Here. Put this pebble in your mouth. It's a nice smooth round one. I picked it up in the garden and washed it clean. You put it in and then say just—as—slow—as—slow: 'Betsy Bobbins baked a batch of biscuit.' After you learn to say it slow, without once stammering, then you begin to say it faster. Either that or any other jingle that's difficult without tripping. 'She sells sea-shells,' or, 'Peter Piper.' Why don't you put the pebble in?"

"I don't want t-to. You're mocking me!"

"There! I knew you needn't if you really wouldn't. When you are a little angry or in real earnest you can talk well. Listen to me and think if I'm not in earnest myself, since I took the trouble to copy all this for you."

Thereupon, from the little pocket of her blouse, which had held the pebble, the teacher took a folded paper, closely covered with her neatest script, and read therefrom paragraphs which alternately plunged her pupil into despair or exalted him to extravagant delight. And the fortunate result of this first lesson was that when it was ended Montgomery had repeated an entire sentence with reasonable smoothness. But he had accomplished this without the pebble and with almost interminable pauses between words.

"Yet you did it, you did it!" cried Katharine, exultantly; "and now for a reward you shall hear the most glorious plan I ever thought out. Listen to me, Mr. President-that-is-to-be!"

So Montgomery listened in astonishment, doubt, and delight, after his habit of mind; yet also, because of her zeal in his cure, with unquestioning allegiance. In any case, it was a scheme that would have appealed to him irresistibly and was one full worthy of the brain of "Kitty Quixote," so that he was fast outstripping even her ingenuity in the matter of detail, when the sudden call of Widow Sprigg fell like a dash of cold water upon their glowing spirits:

"Montgomery Sturtevant! You come right down out that mow this minute! Here's Squire Pettijohn after you!"