"Where are you going, Margaret?" asked Willy.

"Up to the farm. Bell lost one of her knitting-needles, and thought she might have dropped it there; she is up there now, hunting for it, and here it was in my tent all the time. Would you like to come with me, Willy?"

Willy twinkled with pleasure, and fell into step beside her, and the two walked along the pleasant grassy road through the fields, talking busily. They had become great friends, and Willy was never tired of hearing about Basil, who, he declared, "must certainly be a corker."

"I suppose he is, Willy," said Margaret, with resignation. "There seems nothing else for any nice person to be. Did I tell you how brave he was when a great savage dog attacked our poor puppies? Oh, you must hear that."

The recital of Basil's heroism lasted till they reached the farmhouse, both in a state of high enthusiasm, and Willy filled with ardent longings for attacks by savage dogs, that he might show qualities equal to those of the youthful hero. (N. B. Basil, honest, freckled, and practical, would have been much surprised to hear himself held up as a youthful embodiment of Bayard and the Cid in one.)

"I'll wait for you out here, Margaret," he said, when they came to the door. "No, I don't want to come in; they will tell me how I've grown, and I do get so tired of it. I'll sit on the fence and think; I like to think."

Margaret nodded sympathetically and went in. The door opened directly into a wide, sunny kitchen, as bright as sunshine and cleanliness could make it. An elderly woman was standing before a great wheel, spinning wool; beside her, Bell, Gertrude, and Peggy stood watching with absorbed attention. All looked up at Margaret's entrance, and the woman, who had a kind, strong face and sweet brown eyes, laid down her shuttle with a smile of welcome.

"I want to know if this is you," she said. "You're quite a stranger, ain't you? I kind o' looked for you when the gals come in."

"I meant to come, Mrs. Meadows, I truly did; but I was tidying up the tent, and I am so slow about it."

"Mrs. Meadows," said Peggy, laughing, "she wipes every nail-head three times a day, and goes over the whole with a microscope when she has finished, to see if she can find a speck of dust."

"Doos she so?" inquired Mrs. Meadows. "I don't hardly dare to ask her to set down in this room, then. What with the wool flyin' and all, it's a sight, most times."

"Now, Mrs. Meadows!" exclaimed Gertrude. "When you know you are almost as particular as she is! But, Margaret, do you see what we are doing? We are having a spinning lesson. It is so exciting! Come and watch."

"I came to bring your knitting-needle," said Margaret. "Look! it was in my tent, just the end of it sticking out of a crack in the floor. If I had not tidied up, in the way you reprobate, Bell, you might never have got it again."

"Oh! yes, somebody would have stepped on it," laughed Bell. "But I confess I am very grateful for this special attack of tidying. Now, Mrs. Meadows, I shall be all ready for that new yarn as soon as you have it spun."

"My land! don't you want I should color it? I was callatin' to color all this lot."

"No, I like this gray mixture so much; it is just the color for the boys' stockings. By the way, have you seen the boys, Mrs. Meadows? I was looking for them everywhere before I came up."

"Let me see, where did I see them boys?" Mrs. Meadows pondered, drawing the yarn slowly through her fingers. "Gerild and Phillup, you mean? They passed through the yard right after dinner, I should say it was, on their velocipedies; going at a great rate, they was. Here's Jacob, mebbe he'll know."

Jacob, massive and comely, in his customary blue overalls, entered, beaming shyly. "Good mornin', ladies!" he said. "Mother treatin' you well?"

"Very well, Jacob!" said Bell. "We are having a spinning lesson, and find it very interesting."

"I want to know. Well, I allers got on without that branch of edication myself," said Jacob. He was standing near the door, and the girls noticed that he kept his hands behind him.

"Mother, ain't you give the girls no apples?" he said.

"There!" cried Mrs. Meadows, apologetically. "I never thought on't."

"Now, ain't that a sight!" said Jacob, reprovingly. "I thought I could trust you not to let 'em starve, mother, but yet someways I felt I ought to bring the apples myself. I dono's they're fit to eat, though."

Still beaming shy benevolence, he brought from behind him a basket of beautiful rosy apples, every one of which had evidently been polished with care—and the sleeve of his coat.

"Oh, what perfect beauties!" cried the girls. "Oh, thank you, Jacob!"

"What kind are they?" asked Peggy. "They are good!" Peggy never lost a moment in sampling an apple, and her teeth now met in the firm, crisp flesh with every sign of approval.

"Benoni! about the best fall apple there is, round these parts; that is, for any one as likes 'em crips. Some prefer a sweet apple, but I like a fruit that's got some sperit in it, same as I do folks. Well, I wish you all good appetite; I must be goin' back to my hoein' lesson, I guess."

"Oh! Jacob, have you seen Jerry and Phil, lately?" asked Gertrude.

"No, I ain't. Yes I hev, too. They went rocketin' past me this noon, and give me some sarse as they went, and I give it 'em back. I ain't seen 'em sence. They're up to mischief, wherever they be, you can count on that."

Jacob diffused his smile again, and withdrew. The girls, still eating their apples, turned eagerly to Mrs. Meadows. "Now, Mrs. Meadows," they said, "we must go on with our lesson. Margaret, sit down and learn with us; you know you want to learn."

"Indeed, I do!" said Margaret. "But I don't think I'd better now, girls. Willy came up with me, and he is waiting for me outside; I promised to look at a nest he has found, and I don't like to disappoint him. May I come some other day, please, Mrs. Meadows?"

"Well, I guess you may!" said Mrs. Meadows. "Sorry to have ye go now, but glad to see ye next time, and so you'll find it nine days in the week, Miss Montfort. Good day to ye, if ye must go."

Margaret shook the good woman's hand, nodded gaily to the girls, and went out, to find Willy sitting patiently on the fence.

"Was I a very long time, Willy?" she asked. "I thought you might have got out of patience and gone home."

"No!" said Willy, soberly. "You were a good while, but then, girls always are. When a fellow has sisters, you know, he gets used to waiting."

"Oh! indeed!" said Margaret, much amused.

"Yes," said Willy. "I don't think girls have much idea of time, do you?"

"Why, Willy, I don't know that I have ever considered the question. You see, I have always been a girl myself, so perhaps I am not qualified to judge. But—do you think boys have so very much more idea? It seems to me I know some one who has been late for tea several times this week."

Willy looked conscious. "Well," he said, "I know; but that is different. When you are late for tea,—I mean when a boy is,—he is generally doing something that he wants very much indeed to get through with, fishing, or splicing a bat, or something that really has to be done. Besides, he knows they won't wait tea for him, so it doesn't make any difference."

"I see!" said Margaret. "And girls are never doing anything important. Aren't you rather severe on us, Willy?"

Willy was about to reassure her kindly, for he was extremely fond of her; but at this moment a cheery "Hallo!" was heard, and the twins rode up on their bicycles, bright-eyed and flushed after a fine spurt.

"Neck and neck!" said Gerald. "Margaret, I hope you don't object to being a winning-post. That was a great run."

"Where have you been?" asked Margaret, as the two dismounted and walked along on either side of her.

"Over to the Corners, to send a telegram for the Pater. And thereby hangs a tale."

"May we hear it? We love a tale, don't we, Willy?"

Willy did not look particularly enthusiastic, but he murmured something, which Gerald did not wait to hear.

"Well, the Pater desired to send a telegram, even winged words, to that man who has been trying to send us shellac for the last three weeks, and who has, we fear, broken down from the strain. A neat despatch it was: 'Send to-morrow, or not at all.—M. Merryweather.' Well, we had just sent it, when we heard some one behind us say, 'Oh, gosh!' in a tone of such despair that we turned round to see if it was the shellac man in person. It was little Bean, the pitcher of the Corners team, all dressed up in his baseball togs, scarlet breeches and blue shirt, quite the bird of paradise, and reading a yellow telegram, and his face black as thunder. He was an impressionist study, wasn't he, Fergy? We asked what was up, or rather down, for elevation had no part in him. It appeared that a match was on for this afternoon, between the Baked Beans and the Sweet Peas, the Corners and the Spruce Point team. The Beans were all here except the pitcher and first-baseman, brothers, who were to come over by themselves, as they lived at some distance from the rest of the team; and this telegram conveyed the cheering information, that, instead of coming over, they had come down with mumps, and were, in point of fact, in their little beds."

"Oh, what a shame!" said Margaret. "Poor lads! and mumps are such a distressing thing."

"I rejoice to see that you also get your singular and plural mixed in regard to mumps," said Gerald. "You are human, after all. But to tell the truth, I don't know that sympathy with the mumpers was the prevailing sentiment at the Corners."

"Gee! I should think not," said Phil. "This was the match of the season, you see, Margaret. The farmers had come from far and near, and brought their wives and babies; and the Corner fellows had got this gorgeous uniform made, and bought out all the red flannel in the county; and here were these two wretched chumps down with mumps."

"Oh! but Phil," cried Margaret, "they didn't do it on purpose, poor things; and think how they were suffering! You are heartless, I think."

"They would have suffered more if the Baked Beans had got hold of them," said Phil, with a grin; "or the other fellows either, for that matter. But as it turned out, it was the best thing that could have happened for the Beans. He wasn't much of a pitcher."

"What do you mean?" asked Willy, beginning to be interested. "Did they get another pitcher?"

"Did they? Well, I should remark! I let on in a casual way that the former pitcher of a certain college team was not more than a hundred miles from the spot at that moment. You should have seen that fellow's face, Margaret. It really was a study. Perfect bewilderment for a minute, and then—well, I believe he would have gone down on all fours and carried Jerry to the field if he would not have gone in any other way."

"Oh! please, Phil. I am bewildered, too. Is Gerald a—a pitcher?"

"Is he? My child, he is the great original North American jug."

"Oh, pooh!" said Gerald. "Don't be an ass, Ferguson! You are as good a first-baseman as I am pitcher, any day. Of course we were glad to help them out, though I drew the line at scarlet breeches. My mother's angry shade hovered above me and forbade.

I could hear her say it. So I told him that my hair and my temper were the only red I ever wore, and he submitted, though sadly. So we played; and it was a great game. And we smote them hip and thigh, even to the going down of the sun; or would have, if the day had been shorter. Phil made three runs, Will."

"Jerry made three more Will," said Phil; "and pitched like one o'clock, I tell you. I never saw you play better, Obadiah. Those last balls were perfect peaches. I wish you had seen the game, Margaret."

"So do I," said Margaret. "I have never seen a game of baseball."

"Oh! I say!" cried Phil and Willy. "What a shame!"

"Where do you live?" asked Willy, in such open wonder and commiseration that the others all laughed.

"She lives in an enchanted castle, Willy," said Gerald; "with a magician who keeps her in chains—of roses and pearls. He has two attendant spirits who help to keep her in durance that is not precisely vile. How is Mrs. Cook, Margaret? Do you know, you have hardly told me anything about Fernley all this time? I want to know ever so many things. What became of the pretty lady whose house was burned? Do you remember that? I never shall forget it as long as I live."

"Indeed, I do!" said Margaret, blushing. "She is still abroad, Gerald. I doubt if she ever returns, or at least not for a long time. She is well, and really happy, I think. Isn't it wonderful?"

"You didn't see Miss Wolfe come down the ladder!" said Gerald. "That was the most wonderful thing I ever saw. Just as she stepped out on the window-sill, the fire caught the hem of her skirt. I thought she was gone that time. I was just going to drop you and run, when she stooped and squeezed the skirts together—woollen skirts, fortunately—and put it out; and then came swinging down that rope to the ladder, and down the ladder to the ground, as if she had been born in a circus. I tell you, that was something to see. Pity you missed it."

"Why did she miss it?" asked Willy. "And what do you mean by dropping her, Jerry?"

Gerald, whose eyes were shining with the excitement of recollection, turned and looked down at his small brother as if suddenly recalling his existence.

"Margaret was—busy!" he said, briefly. "And, I say, Father William, don't you want to take my biky down and give him a feed of oats? he is hungry. See him paw the ground!" and he gave the bicycle a twirl.

"I must go," said Phil, remounting his own. "Come along, Willy, and I'll race you to Camp."

But for once Willy held back. "I was going to take Margaret to see a redwing's nest," he said. "I promised her I would."

"Oh! Margaret will excuse you," said Phil. "Won't you, Margaret? Redwings' nests always look better in the morning, besides. Come on, boy, and I'll tell you all about the game."

Willy still hesitated, looking at Margaret; and she in her turn hesitated, blushing rosy red. "Don't let me keep you, Willy dear," she said. "If you would like to hear about the game—"

"Go on, young un!" said Gerald, in a tone of decision so unlike his usual bantering way, that Willy stared, then yielded; and slowly mounting the bicycle, started off with Phil along the road.

They rode for some time in silence, Phil being apparently lost in thought.

"Well!" said Willy at last, in an injured tone.

"Well, what is it, Belted Will?"

"I thought you were going to tell me about the game," said Willy, moodily. "I say, Phil! I think it was awfully rude of you and Jerry to yank me off that way, when I had promised Margaret to take her somewhere, and we were going straight there when you came along and broke in. I don't think that's any kind of way to do, and I am sure Ma would say so, too. What do you suppose Margaret thinks of me now?"

"Ri tum ti tum ti tido!" carolled Phil. "What do I suppose she thinks of you, Belted One? Why, she thinks you are one of the nicest boys she ever saw; and so you are, when not in doleful dumps. See here, old chap! you'll be older before you are younger, and some day you will know a hawk from a handsaw, or hernshaw, according to which reading of 'Hamlet' you prefer. And now as to this game!"

He plunged into a detailed account of the great match, and soon Willy's eyes were sparkling, and his cheeks glowing, and he had forgotten all about Margaret and the redwing's nest.

But as they crested the hill, which on the other side dipped down to the camp, Phil glanced back along the road. Margaret and Gerald were walking slowly, deep in talk, and did not see the wave of his hand. "Heigh, ho!" said Phil; but he smiled even while he sighed.