Mildred Keith

The boys got out their stores of marbles, balls, bits of twine, a broken knife or two, a few fish hooks and a set of Jackstraws their father had made for them.

Fan brought out her treasures also, which consisted of several dolls and their wardrobes, a picture book and some badly battered and bruised dishes; the remains of a once highly prized metal toy tea set.

A packing box in one corner of the large second story room was where the playthings of the little ones were always kept when not in use. "A place for everything and everything in its place," being one of the cardinal rules of the household.

"Can we take 'em over there now?" asked Fan, as she gathered hers pell mell into her apron.

"No, of course not," said Cyril. "Didn't you hear mother say we couldn't begin moving till to-morrow?"

"Then what did we get 'em out for?"

"To pack 'em up and have 'em ready to take over in the morning."

"What'll we pack 'em in?" reiterated Don.

"Let's look round for a box 'bout the right size," said Cyril. "Course we can't carry them in the big board one. It's too heavy."

A good deal of rummaging followed upon that; first in the outer room, then in the other, occupied by Aunt Wealthy and Mildred.

Finally they came upon a pasteboard box standing on Mildred's writing table, which Cyril pronounced just the thing.

"But maybe Milly won't like us to take it," objected Fan, as he unceremoniously emptied the contents upon the table.

"Oh, she won't care; there's nothing in it but old papers and things writed all over. She's done with them and she'll be puttin' them in the fire next thing. You know she always likes to burn up old rubbish."

That last statement was certainly according to fact, and Fan made no further objection.

Don suggested asking leave, but Cyril overruled that also.

"No; they're all too busy down there; we mustn't bother," he said, walking off with his prize.

One paper had fallen on the floor. Fan stooped, picked it up and looked at it curiously, as the boys hurried off into the other room with their prize.

"Milly didn't do that," she remarked; "tain't pretty writin' like hers. Guess she wouldn't want to keep such an ugly old thing."

"Come Fan," Cyril called, "do you want to put your things in too?"

"Yes;" she said, coming out with the letter still in her hand.

Fan's dolls were put in last and the box was too full to allow the lid to go on.

"I'll take Bertha and carry her in my arms," she said, lifting out her largest and favorite child. "I want her to play wis now and I'd raser not trust her in dere wis dose marbles and balls rollin' round."

"Now the lid fits on all right," said Cyril, adjusting it.

"We're all packed up," observed Don, with satisfaction. "Now let's go play in the grove."

The others were agreed and Fan decided that she must take with her two small rag dolls in addition to Bertha.

Puss had come up stairs with the children and was walking round and round them, as they sat on the carpet, rubbing affectionately against them and purring loudly.

"Let's give 'em a ride on Toy's back," said Cyril. "Here's a string to tie 'em on with, and this old letter shall be the saddle," picking up the one Fan had brought from the other room, and which she had laid down beside the box.

The others were pleased with the idea; Cyril twisted the letter into some slight resemblance to a saddle, and in spite of a vigorous resistance from the cat, tied it and the dolls pretty securely to her back.

She was of course expected to go with or follow them as usual; but the instant they released her she flew down the stairs, darted out of the open kitchen door, tore across the yard and scaled the fence in a twinkling.

The children pursued at their utmost speed, but Toy was out of sight before they could descend the stairs.

"Well, I never! that 'ar cat must a gone mad," Celestia Ann was saying, standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her gaze turned wonderingly in the direction Toy had taken.

"Where? which way did she go?" asked the children breathlessly.

"Over the fence yonder, tearing like mad. She went like a streak o' lightnin' through the kitching here, and I didn't see no more of her after she clum the fence. She's got the hydrophoby bad, you may depend; and I only hope she won't bite nobody, 'fore somebody knocks her in the head."

"No, it's my dolls she's got," said Fan, who had not the slightest idea what "hydrophoby" might be. "O, boys, hurry and catch her 'fore she loses 'em," she called after her brothers as they renewed the pursuit, hurrying across the yard and climbing the fence with a speed that did credit to their ability in that line.

Fan stood beside it, gazing out anxiously through a crack between the high, rough boards till the boys returned all breathless with running, to report, "No Toy and no dolls to be seen anywhere."

"But don't cry," added Cyril, seeing Fan's lips tremble ominously; "she'll come back when she wants her supper; you bet."

"It's wicked to bet," remarked Don virtuously.

"I didn't," said Cyril, "come let's go play in the grove. I'll bend down a tree and give you a nice ride, Fan."

Gotobed Lightcap had just finished a job, and pausing a moment to rest, was wiping the perspiration from his brow with a rather dilapidated specimen of pocket-handkerchief, when a cat darted in at the open door, ran round the smithy in a frightened way, then lay down on the floor and rolled and squirmed kicking its feet in the air in the evident effort to rid itself of something tied to its back.

With a single stride Gotobed was at the side of the struggling animal.

He took it up and in a few seconds had relieved it of its hated incumbrance.

"It's them Keith children's pet cat," he said half aloud, "and they've been a tyin' some of their doll babies onto it. There you kin go, puss; don't take up yer lodgin' here; for we've cats enough o' our own.

"Eh! what's this?" as his eye fell on the letter and he recognized his own awkward, ill-shaped hieroglyphics.

He felt his face grow very red and hot as he straightened it out upon his knees, his heart fluttering with the thought of the possibility that it might have been some little liking for the writer that had prevented its immediate destruction.

There were some words in pencil along the margin; he held it up to the light and slowly deciphered them.

He was not much accustomed to reading writing and this had become slightly blurred: but he made it out clearly at last; a jesting remark about his mistakes in spelling and grammar, which were many and glaring.

"I wouldn't ha' believed it of her!" he exclaimed, crimsoning with anger and shame as he flung the torn and crumpled sheet into the fire of his forge, the dolls after it.

He caught up his hammer and fell to work again, muttering to himself, "It's her writin'; there can't be no mistake; fur it's just like what she writ me afore. And I wouldn't a' believed it of her, I wouldn't; I thought she'd a kind heart and would make allowance fur them that hasn't had the same chance as her."

He had not been wrong in his estimate of Mildred. She would never have wounded his feelings intentionally. She had a habit of writing her thoughts on the margin of what she was reading, and the words had been carelessly traced there with no expectation that they would ever be seen by any eye but her own. Nor would they but for the mischievous meddling of the children.

She set no value upon the letter; did not miss it till months afterwards, and then supposed she had destroyed it, though she could not distinctly remember having done so.