“Algernon Paul,” called Mrs. Holmes, shrilly, “let the kitty alone!”

Every one else on the premises heard the command, but “Algernon Paul,” perhaps because he was not yet fully accustomed to his new name, continued forcing Claudius Tiberius to walk about on his fore feet, the rest of him being held uncomfortably in the air by the guiding influence.

“Algernon!” The voice was so close this time that the cat was freed by his persecutor’s violent start. Seeing that it was only his mother, Algernon Paul attempted to recover his treasure again, and was badly scratched by that selfsame treasure. Whereupon Mrs. Holmes soundly cuffed Claudius Tiberius “for scratching dear little Ebbie, I mean Algernon Paul,” and received a bite or two on her own account.

“Come, Ebbie, dear,” she continued, “we are going now. We have been driven away from dear uncle’s. Where is sister?”

“Sister” was discovered in the forbidden Paradise of the chicken-coop, and dragged out, howling. Willie, not desiring to leave “dear uncle’s,” was forcibly retrieved by Dick from the roof of the barn.

Mr. Harold Vernon Perkins had silently disappeared in the night, but no one feared foul play. “He’ll be waitin’ at the train, I reckon,” said Mrs. Dodd, “an’ most likely composin’ a poem on ‘Departure’ or else breathin’ into a tube to see if he’s mad.”

She had taken her dismissal very calmly after the first shock. “A woman what’s been married seven times, same as I be,” she explained to Dorothy, “gets used to bein’ moved around from place to place. My sixth husband had the movin’ habit terrible. No sooner would we get settled nice an’ comfortable in a place, an’ I got enough acquainted to borrow sugar an’ tea an’ molasses from my new neighbours, than Thomas would decide to move, an’ more ’n likely, it’d be to some new town where there was a great openin’ in some new business that he’d never tried his hand at yet.

“My dear, I’ve been the wife of a undertaker, a livery-stable keeper, a patent medicine man, a grocer, a butcher, a farmer, an’ a justice of the peace, all in one an’ the same marriage. Seems ’s if there wa’n’t no business Thomas couldn’t feel to turn his hand to, an’ he knowed how they all ought to be run. If anybody was makin’ a failure of anythin’, Thomas knowed just why it was failin’ an’ I must say he ought to know, too, for I never see no more steady failer than Thomas.

“They say a rollin’ stone never gets no moss on it, but it gets worn terrible smooth, an’ by the time I ’d moved to eight or ten different towns an’ got as many as ’leven houses all fixed up, the corners was all broke off ’n me as well as off ’n the furniture. My third husband left me well provided with furniture, but when I went to my seventh altar, I didn’t have nothin’ left but a soap box an’ half a red blanket, on account of havin’ moved around so much.

“I got so’s I’d never unpack all the things in any one place, but keep ’em in their dry-goods boxes an’ barrels nice an’ handy to go on again. When the movin’ fit come on Thomas, I was always in such light marchin’ order that I could go on a day’s notice, an’ that’s the way we usually went. I told him once it’d be easier an’ cheaper to fit up a prairie schooner such as they used to cross the plains in, an’ then when we wanted to move, all we’d have to do would be to put a dipper of water on the fire an’ tell the mules to get ap, but it riled him so terrible that I never said nothin’ about it again, though all through my sixth marriage, it seemed a dretful likely notion.

“A woman with much marryin’ experience soon learns not to rile a husband when ’t ain’t necessary. Sometimes I think the poor creeters has enough to contend with outside without bein’ obliged to fight at home, though it does beat all, my dear, what a terrible exertion ’t is for most men to earn a livin’. None of my husbands was ever obliged to fight at home an’ I take great comfort thinkin’ how peaceful they all was when they was livin’ with me, an’ how peaceful they all be now, though I think it’s more ’n likely that Thomas is a-sufferin’ because he can’t move no more at present.”

Her monologue was interrupted by the arrival of the stage, which Harlan had gladly ordered. Mrs. Holmes and the children climbed into it without vouchsafing a word to anybody, but Mrs. Dodd shook hands all around and would have kissed both Dorothy and Elaine had they not dodged the caress.

“Remember, my dear,” said Mrs. Dodd to Dorothy; “I don’t bear you no grudge, though I never was turned out of no place before. It’s all in a lifetime, the same as marryin’, and if I should ever marry again an’ have a home of my own to invite you to, you an’ your husband’ll be welcome to come and stay with me as long as I’ve stayed with you, or longer, if you felt ’twas pleasant, an’ I’d try to make it so.”

The kindly speech made Dorothy very much ashamed of herself, though she did not know exactly why, and Gladys Gwendolen, with a cherubic smile, leaned out of the stage window and waved a chubby hand, saying: “Bye bye!” Mrs. Holmes alone seemed hard and unforgiving, as she sat sternly upright, looking neither to the right nor the left.

“Rather unusual, isn’t it?” whispered Elaine, as the ponderous vehicle turned into the yard, “to see so many of one’s friends going on the stage at once?”

“Not at all,” chuckled Dick. “Everybody goes on the stage when they leave the Carrs.”

“Good bye, Belinda,” yelled Uncle Israel, putting his flannel bandaged head out of one of the round upper windows. He had climbed up on a chair to do it. “I don’t reckon I’ll ever hear from you again exceptin’ where Lazarus heard from the rich man!”

“Don’t let that trouble you, Israel,” shrieked Mrs. Dodd, piercingly. “I take it the rich man was diggin’ for eight cents in Satan’s orchard, an’ didn’t have no time to look up his friends.”

The rejoinder seemed not to affect Uncle Israel, but it sent Dick into a spasm of merriment from which he recovered only when Harlan pounded him on the back.

“Come on,” said Harlan, “it’s not time to laugh yet. We’ve got to pack Uncle Israel’s bed.”

Uncle Israel was going on the afternoon train, and in another direction. He sat on his trunk and issued minute instructions, occasionally having the whole thing taken apart to be put together in a different kind of a parcel. As an especial favour, Dick was allowed to crate the bath cabinet, though as a rule, no profane hands were permitted to touch this instrument of health. Uncle Israel himself arranged his bottles, and boxes, and powders; a hand-satchel containing his medicines for the journey and the night.

“I reckon,” he said, “if I take a double dose of my pain-killer, this noon, an’ a double dose of my nerve tonic just before I get on the cars, I c’n get along with these few remedies till I get to Betsey’s, where I’ll have to take a full course of treatment to pay for all this travellin’. The pain-killer bottle an’ the nerve tonic bottle is both dretful heavy, in spite of bein’ only half full.”

“How would it do,” suggested Harlan, kindly, “to pour the nerve tonic into the pain-killer, and then you’d have only one bottle to carry. You mix them inside, anyway.”

“You seem real intelligent, nephew,” quavered Uncle Israel. “I never knowed I had no such smart relations. As you say, I mix ’em in my system anyway, an’ it can’t do no harm to do it in the bottle first.”

No sooner said than done, but, strangely enough, the mixture turned a vivid emerald green, and had such a peculiarly vile odour that even Uncle Israel refused to have anything further to do with it.

“I shouldn’t wonder but what you’d done me a real service, nephew,” continued Uncle Israel. “Here I’ve been takin’ this, month after month, an’ never suspectin’ what it was doin’ in my insides. I’ve suspicioned for some time that the pain-killer wan’t doin’ me no good, an’ I’ve been goin’ to try Doctor Jones’s Squaw Remedy, anyhow. I shouldn’t wonder if my whole insides was green instead of red as they orter be. The next time I go to the City, I’m goin’ to take this here compound to the healin’ emporium where I bought it, an’ ask ’em what there is in it that paints folk’s insides. ’Tain’t nothin’ more ’n green paint.”

The patient was so interested in this new development that he demanded a paint-brush and experimented on the porch railing, where it seemed, indeed, to be “green paint.” In getting a nearer view, he touched his nose to it and acquired a bright green spot on the tip of that highly useful organ. Desiring to test it by every sense, he next put his ear down to the railing, as though he expected to hear the elements of the compound rushing together explosively.

“My hearin’ is bad,” he explained. “I wish you’d listen to this here a minute or two, nephew, an’ see if you don’t hear sunthin’.” But Harlan, with his handkerchief pressed tightly to his nose, politely declined.

“I don’t feel,” continued Uncle Israel, tottering into the house, “as though a poor, sick man with green insides instead of red orter be turned out. Judson Centre is a terrible healthy place, or the sanitarium wouldn’t have been built here, an’ travellin’ on the cars would shake me up considerable. I feel as though I was goin’ to be took bad, an’ as if I ought not to go. If somebody’ll set up my bed, I’ll just lay down on it an’ die now. Ebeneezer would be willin’ for me to die in his house, I know, for he’s often said it’d be a reel pleasure to him to pay my funeral expenses if I c’d only make up my mind to claim ’em, an’,” went on the old man pitifully, “I feel to claim ’em now. Set up my bed,” he wheezed, “an’ let me die. I’m bein’ took bad.”

He was swiftly reasoning himself into abject helplessness when Dick came valiantly to the rescue. “I’ll tell you what, Uncle Israel,” he said, “if you’re going to be sick, and of course you know whether you are or not, we’ll just get a carriage and take you over to the sanitarium. I’ll pay your board there for a week, myself, and by that time we’ll know just what’s the matter with you.”

The patient brightened amazingly at the mention of the sanitarium, and was more than willing to go. “I’ve took all kinds of treatment,” he creaked, “but I ain’t never been to no sanitarium, an’ I misdoubt whether they’ve ever had anybody with green insides.

“I reckon,” he added, proudly, “that that wanderin’ pain in my spine’ll stump ’em some to know what it is. Even in the big store where they keep all kinds of medicines, there couldn’t nobody tell me. I know what disease ’tis, but I won’t tell nobody. A man knows his own system best an’ I reckon them smart doctors up at the sanitarium ’ll be scratchin’ their heads over such a complicated case as I be. Send my bed on to Betsey’s but write on it that it ain’t to be set up till I come. ’Twouldn’t be worth while settin’ it up at the sanitarium for a week, an’ I’m minded to try a medical bed, anyways. I ain’t never had none. Get the carriage, quick, for I feel an ailment comin’ on me powerful hard every minute.”

“Suppose,” said Harlan, in a swift aside, “that they refuse to take the patient? What shall we do then?”

“We won’t discuss that,” answered Dick, in a low tone. “My plan is to leave the patient, drive away swiftly, and, an hour or so later, walk back and settle with the head of the repair shop for a week’s mending in advance.”

Harlan laughed gleefully, at which Uncle Israel pricked up his ears. “I’m in on the bill,” he continued; “we’ll go halves on the mending.”

“Laughin’” said Uncle Israel, scornfully, “at your poor old uncle what ain’t goin’ to live much longer. If your insides was all turned green, you wouldn’t be laughin’—you’d be thinkin’ about your immortal souls.”

It was late afternoon when the bed was finally dumped on the side track to await the arrival of the freight train, being securely covered with a canvas tarpaulin to keep it from the night dew and stray, malicious germs, seeking that which they might devour. Uncle Israel insisted upon overseeing this job himself, so that he did not reach the sanitarium until almost nightfall. Dick and Harlan were driving, and they shamelessly left the patient at the door of the Temple of Healing, with his crated bath cabinet, his few personal belongings, and his medicines.

Turning back at the foot of the hill, they saw that the wanderer had been taken in, though the bath cabinet still remained outside.

“Mean trick to play on a respectable institution,” observed Dick, lashing the horses into a gallop, “but I’ll go over in the morning and square it with ’em.”

“I’ll go with you,” volunteered Harlan. “It’s just as well to have two of us, for we won’t be popular. The survivor can take back the farewell message to the wife and family of the other.”

He meant it for a jest, but even in the gathering darkness, he could see the dull red mounting to Dick’s temples. “I’ll be darned,” thought Harlan, seeing the whole situation instantly. Then, moved by a brotherly impulse, he said, cheerfully: “Go in and win, old man. Good luck to you!”

“Thanks,” muttered Dick, huskily, “but it’s no use. She won’t look at me. She wants a nice lady-like poet, that’s what she wants.”

“No, she doesn’t,” returned Harlan, with deep conviction. “I don’t claim to be a specialist, but when a man and a poet are entered for the matrimonial handicap, I’ll put my money on the man, every time.”

Dick swiftly changed the subject, and began to speculate on probable happenings at the sanitarium. They left the conveyance in the village, from whence it had been taken, and walked uphill.

Lights gleamed from every window of the Jack-o’-Lantern, but the eccentric face of the house had, for the first time, a friendly aspect. Warmth and cheer were in the blinking eyes and the grinning mouth, though, as Dick said, it seemed impossible that “no pumpkin seeds were left inside.”

Those who do not believe in personal influence should go into a house which uninvited and undesired guests have regretfully left. Every alien element had gone from the house on the hill, yet the very walls were still vocal with discord. One expected, every moment, to hear Uncle Israel’s wheeze, the shrill, spiteful comment of Mrs. Holmes, or a howl from one of the twins.

“What shall we do,” asked Harlan, “to celebrate the day of emancipation?”

“I know,” answered Dorothy, with a little laugh. “We’ll burn a bed.”

“Whose bed?” queried Dick.

“Mr. Perkins’s bed,” responded Elaine, readily. The tone of her voice sent a warm glow to Dick’s heart, and he went to work at the heavy walnut structure with more gladness than exercise of that particular kind had ever given him before.

Harlan rummaged through the cellar and found a bottle of Uncle Ebeneezer’s old port, which, for some occult reason, had hitherto escaped. Mrs. Smithers, moved to joyful song, did herself proud in the matter of fried chicken and flaky biscuit. Dorothy had taken all the leaves out of the table, so that now it was cosily set for four, and placed a battered old brass candlestick, with a tallow candle in it, in the centre.

“Seems like living, doesn’t it?” asked Harlan. Until now, he had not known how surely though secretly distressed he had been by Aunt Rebecca’s persistent kin. Claudius Tiberius apparently felt the prevailing cheerfulness, and purred vigorously, in Elaine’s lap.

Afterward, they made a fire in the parlour, even though the night was so warm that they were obliged to have all the windows open, and, inspired by the portrait of Uncle Ebeneezer, discussed the peculiarities of his self-invited guests.

The sacrificial flame arising from the poet’s bed directed the conversation to Mr. Perkins and his gift of song. Dick, though feeling more deeply upon the subject than any of the rest, was wise enough not to say too much.

“I found something under his mattress,” remarked Dick, when the conversation flagged, “while I was taking his blooming crib apart to chop it up. I guess it must be a poem.”

He drew a sorely flattened roll from his pocket, and slipped off the crumpled blue ribbon. It was, indeed, a poem, entitled “Farewell.”

“I thought he might have been polite enough to say good bye,” said Dorothy. “Perhaps it was easier to write it.”

“Read it,” cried Elaine, her eyes dancing. “Please do!”

So Dick read as follows:

“Poor Mr. Perkins,” commented Dorothy, softly.

“Yes,” mimicked Harlan, “poor Mr. Perkins. I don’t see but what he’ll have to work now, like any plain, ordinary mortal, with no ‘gift’.”

“What is the Ideal, anyway?” queried Elaine, looking thoughtfully into the embers of the poet’s bedstead.

“That’s easy,” answered Dick, not without evident feeling. “It’s whatever Mr. Perkins happens to be doing, or trying to do. He fixes it for the rest of us.”

“I think,” suggested Dorothy, after a momentary silence, “that the Ideal consists in minding your own business and gently, but firmly, assisting others to mind theirs.”

All unknowingly, Dorothy had expressed the dominant idea of the dead master of the house. She fancied that the pictured face over the mantel was about to smile at her. Dorothy and Uncle Ebeneezer understood each other now, and she no longer wished to have the portrait moved.

Before they separated for the night, Dick told them all about the midnight gathering in the orchard, which he had witnessed from afar, and which the others enjoyed beyond his expectations.

“That’s what uncle meant,” said Elaine, “by ‘fixing a surprise for relations.’” “I don’t blame him,” observed Harlan, “not a blooming bit. I wish the poor old duck could have been here to see it. Why wasn’t I in on it?” he demanded of Dick, somewhat resentfully. “When anything like that was going on, why didn’t you take me in?”

“It wasn’t for me to interfere with his doings,” protested Dick, “but I do wish you could have seen Uncle Israel.”

At the recollection he went off into a spasm of merriment which bid fair to prove fatal. The rest laughed with him, not knowing just what it was about, such was the infectious quality of Dick’s mirth.

“They’ve all gone,” laughed Elaine, happily, taking her bedroom candle from Dorothy’s hand, “they’ve all gone, every single one, and now we’re going to have some good times.”

Dick watched her as she went upstairs, the candlelight shining tenderly upon her sweet face, and thus betrayed himself to Dorothy, who had suspected for some time that he loved Elaine.

“Oh Lord!” grumbled Dick to himself, when he was safely in his own room. “Everybody knows it now, except her. I’ll bet even Sis Smithers and the cat are dead next to me. I might as well tell her to-morrow as any time, the result will be just the same. Better do it and have it over with. The cat’ll tell her if nobody else does.”

But that night, strangely enough, Claudius Tiberius disappeared, to be seen or heard of no more.