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any of ‘em?”

      No wonder he asked, for Gay was in such a wild state of excitement that she could hardly be held.

      “I can lift Gay up, if you’ll please take her, sir,” said Timothy; “and if you’re quite sure the horse will stand still.”

      “Bless your soul, she’ll stan’ all right; she likes stan’in’ a heap better ‘n she doos goin’; runnin’ away ain’t no temptation to Maria Cummins; let well enough alone ‘s her motto. Jump in, sissy! There ye be! Now git yer baby-shay in the back of the wagon, bubby, ‘n’ we’ll be ‘s snug ‘s a bug in a rug.”

      Timothy, whose creed was simple and whose beliefs were crystal clear, now felt that his morning prayer had been heard, and that the Lord was on his side; so he abandoned all idea of commanding the situation, and gave himself up to the full ecstasy of the ride, as they jogged peacefully along the river road.

      Gay held a piece of a rein that peeped from Jabe’s colossal hand (which was said by the villagers to cover most as much territory as the hand of Providence), and was convinced that she was driving Maria, an idea that made her speechless with joy.

      Rags’ wildest dreams of squirrels came true; and, reconciled at length to cleanliness, he was capering in and out of the woods, thinking what an Arabian Nights’ entertainment he would give the Minerva Court dogs when he returned, if return he ever must to that miserable, squirrelless hole.

      The meadows on the other side of the river were gorgeous with yellow buttercups, and here and there a patch of blue iris or wild sage. The black cherry trees were masses of snowy bloom; the water at the river’s edge held spikes of blue arrowweed in its crystal shallows; while the roadside itself was gay with daisies and feathery grasses.

      In the midst of this loveliness flowed Pleasant River,

      “Vexed in all its seaward course by bridges, dams, and mills,”

      but finding time, during the busy summer months, to flush its fertile banks with beauty.

      Suddenly (a word that could seldom be truthfully applied to the description of Jabe Slocum’s movements) the reins were ruthlessly drawn from Lady Gay’s hands and wound about the whipstock.

      “Gorry!” ejaculated Mr. Slocum, “ef I hain’t left the widder Foss settin’ on Aunt Hitty’s hoss-block, ‘n’ I promised to pick her up when I come along back! That all comes o’ my drivin’ by the store so fast on account o’ the boys hectorin’ of me, so ‘t when I got to the turn I was so kind of het up I jogged right along the straight road. Haste makes waste ‘s an awful good motto. Pile out, young ones! It’s only half a mile from here to the Falls, ‘n’ you’ll have to get there on Shank’s mare!”

      So saying, he dumped the astonished children into the middle of the road, from whence he had plucked them, turned the docile mare, and with a “Git, Mariar!” went four miles back to relieve Aunt Hitty’s horse-block from the weight of the widder Foss (which was no joke!).

      This turn of affairs was most unexpected, and Gay seemed on the point of tears; but Timothy gathered her a handful of wild flowers, wiped the dust from her face, put on the clean blue gingham apron, and established her in the basket, where she soon fell asleep, wearied by the excitements of the day.

      Timothy’s heart began to be a little troubled as he walked on and on through the leafy woods, trundling the basket behind him. Nothing had gone wrong; indeed, everything had been much easier than he could have hoped. Perhaps it was the weariness that had crept into his legs, and the hollowness that began to appear in his stomach; but, somehow, although in the morning he had expected to find Gay’s new mothers beckoning from every window, so that he could scarcely choose between them, he now felt as if the whole race of mothers had suddenly become extinct.

      Soon the village came in sight, nestled in the laps of the green hills on both sides of the river. Timothy trudged bravely on, scanning all the dwellings, but finding none of them just the thing. At last he turned deliberately off the main road, where the houses seemed too near together and too near the street, for his taste, and trundled his family down a shady sort of avenue, over which the arching elms met and clasped hands.

      Rags had by this time lowered his tail to half-mast, and kept strictly to the beaten path, notwithstanding manifold temptations to forsake it. He passed two cats without a single insulting remark, and his entire demeanor was eloquent of nostalgia.

      “Oh, dear!” sighed Timothy disconsolately; “there’s something wrong with all the places. Either there’s no pigeon-house, like in all the pictures, or no flower garden, or no chickens, or no lady at the window, or else there’s lots of baby-clothes hanging on the wash-lines. I don’t believe I shall ever find”—

      At this moment a large, comfortable white house, that had been heretofore hidden by great trees, came into view. Timothy drew nearer to the spotless picket fence, and gazed upon the beauties of the side yard and the front garden,—gazed and gazed, and fell desperately in love at first sight.

      The whole thing had been made as if to order; that is all there is to say about it. There was an orchard, and, oh, ecstasy! what hosts of green apples! There was an interesting grindstone under one tree, and a bright blue chair and stool under another; a thicket of currant and gooseberry bushes; and a flock of young turkeys ambling awkwardly through the barn. Timothy stepped gently along in the thick grass, past a pump and a mossy trough, till a side porch came into view, with a woman sitting there sewing bright-colored rags. A row of shining tin pans caught the sun’s rays, and threw them back in a thousand glittering prisms of light; the grasshoppers and crickets chirped sleepily in the warm grass, and a score of tiny yellow butterflies hovered over a group of odorous hollyhocks.

      Suddenly the person on the porch broke into this cheerful song, which she pitched in so high a key and gave with such emphasis that the crickets and grasshoppers retired by mutual consent from any further competition, and the butterflies suspended operations for several seconds:—

      “I’ll chase the antelope over the plain,

       The tiger’s cob I’ll bind with a chain,

       And the wild gazelle with the silv’ry feet

       I’ll bring to thee for a playmate sweet.”

      Timothy listened intently for some moments, but could not understand the words, unless the lady happened to be in the menagerie business, which he thought unlikely, but delightful should it prove true.

      His eye then fell on a little marble slab under a tree in a shady corner of the orchard.

      “That’s a country doorplate,” he thought; “yes, it’s got the lady’s name, ‘Martha Cummins,’ printed on it. Now I’ll know what to call her.”

      He crept softly on to the front side of the house. There were flower beds, a lovable white cat snoozing on the doorsteps, and—a lady sitting at the open window knitting!

      At this vision Timothy’s heart beat so hard against his little jacket that he could only stagger back to the basket, where Rags and Lady Gay were snuggled together, fast asleep. He anxiously scanned Gay’s face; moistened his rag of a handkerchief at the only available source of supply; scrubbed an atrocious dirt spot from the tip of her spirited nose; and then, dragging the basket along the path leading to the front gate, he opened it and went in, mounted the steps, plied the brass knocker, and waited in childlike faith for a summons to enter and make himself at home.

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