 CHAPTER X The Milligan's To the moment of Grandma Pike's departure, all their neighbors had been so pleasant, the girls were deceived into thinking that neighbors were never anything but pleasant. Although they felt not the slightest misgiving as to their future neighbors, they had hated to lose dear old Grandma Pike, who had always been as good to them as if she had really been their grandmother, and whose parting gifts, sundry odds and ends of dishes, old magazine, and broken parcels of provisions, gave them occupation for many delightful days. In spite of the lasting pleasure of this unexpected donation, however, they could not help feeling that, with Mr. Blackaway, Ms. Blossomgon, Mrs. Pike living in another town, and only disabled Mrs. Crane left, they were losing friends with alarming rapidity. Grief for the departed, however, did not prevent their taking an active interest in the persons who were to occupy the house next door, which Mrs. Pike's departure had left vacant. I wonder, said Marjorie, pulling the curtain back to get a better view of the empty house, what the new people will be like. It's exciting, isn't it, to have something happening in this quiet neighborhood. What did Grandma Pike say their name was? Milligan, replied Betty. Kind of nice name, isn't it? asked Jean. Yes, agreed Mabel, brightening suddenly, and made up a long, long rhyme about it last night before I went to sleep. Want to hear it? Of course. This one really rhymes, explained Mabel, importantly. Her verses sometimes lacked that desirable quality, so when they did rhyme, Mabel always liked to mention it. Here it is. As soon as a man named Milligan got well, he always fell ill again. Ill again ill. Dear me, I can't remember how it went. There was a lot more, but I've forgotten the rest. It's a great pity, said Marjorie Dryley, that you don't forget all of it, because if there's really a Mr. Milligan and I ever see him, I'll think of that rhyme and I won't be able to keep my face straight. We must be very polite to the Milligans, said considerate Betty, and call on them as soon as they come. Mother always calls on new people. She says it makes folks feel more comfortable to be welcomed into the neighborhood. Mrs. Crane does it, too. We're the nearest, perhaps. We ought to be the first. I think, suggested Jean thoughtfully, we'd better wait until they're nicely settled. They might not like visitors too soon. You know, we didn't. They're going to move in today, said Mabel. Goodness! I wish they'd hurry and come. I'm so excited that I keep dusting the same shelf over and over again. I'm just wild to see them. It was sweeping day at the cottage when the Milligans' furniture began to arrive, but it looked very much as if the sweeping would last for at least two days, because the girls were unable to get very far away from the windows that faced west. These were the bedroom windows, and as there were only two of them, there were always usually two heads at each window. There comes the first load, announced Marjorie at last. There's a high chair on the very top, so there must be a baby. I'm so glad, said Betty. I just love a baby. Two men unpacked the Milligans' furniture in the Milligans' front yard, and each load seemed more interesting than the one before it. It was such fun to guess what the big clumsy parcels contained, particularly when the contents proved to be quite different from what the girls expected. Somehow I don't think they're going to be very nice people, said Mabel. I believe we're going to be disappointed in them. Why, Mabel, objected Jean, we don't know a thing about them yet. Yes, I do. Their things look—they don't look ladylike. Oh, Mabel, laughed Marjorie. You're so funny. Perhaps, offered Jean, the Milligans are poor, and the children have spoiled things. No, insisted Mabel. They've got some of the newest and shiniest furniture I ever saw, but I believe it's imitation. Oh, Mabel, laughed Jean. I hope you won't watch the loads when I move. For a girl that slept for three weeks on an imitation pillow, you're pretty critical. Presently the Milligans themselves arrived. Mabel happened to be counting the buds on the poppy plants when they came. Girls, she cried, rushing into the cottage with the news. They've come. I saw them all. There's a Mr. Milligan, a Mrs. Milligan, a girl, a boy, and a baby, and a dog. The girl's the oldest. She's just about my size. I mean height. And she has straight, light hair. The baby walks, and none of them are so very good-looking. It did not take the newcomers long to discover that their next-door neighbors were four little girls. Mrs. Milligan found it out that very afternoon when she went to the back door to borrow tea. Betty explained very politely that dandelion cottage was only a playhouse and that their tea-caddy contained nothing but glass beads. When Mrs. Milligan returned to her own house, she told her own family about it. You might as well run over and play with them, Laura, she said. Take the baby with you, too. He's a dreadful nuisance under my feet. That'll be a real nice place for you both to play all summer. The girls received their visitors pleasantly, almost indeed with enthusiasm. But after a very few moments they began to eye the baby with apprehension. He refused to make friends with them, but wandered about rather lawlessly and handled their treasures roughly. Laura paid no attention to him but talked to the girls. She seemed a bright girl and not at all bashful, and she used a great many slang phrases that sounded new, and it must be confessed rather attractive to the girls. Oh, land, yes, she said. We came here from Chicago, where we had all kinds of money and clothes to burn. We lived in a beautiful flat. Pa just came here to oblige Mr. Williams. He's going to clerk in Williams's store. Come over and see me. We'll be real friendly and have lots of good times together. I can put you up to lots of dodges. Say, this is a dandy place to play in. I'm coming over often. Gene looked in silence at Betty, Betty at Mabel, and Mabel at Marjorie. Surely such an outburst of cordiality deserved a fitting response, but no one seemed to be able to make it. Do, said Gene, finally, but rather feebly, we'd be pleased to have you. Except for a few lively but good-natured squabbles between Marjorie, who was something of a tease, and Mabel, who was Marjorie's favorite victim. The little mistresses of dandelion cottage had always played together in perfect harmony. But with the coming of the Milligan's everything was changed. To start with, between the Milligan baby and the Milligan dog, the girls knew no peace. Mrs. Milligan was right when she said that the baby was a nuisance, for it would have been hard to find a more troublesome three-year-old. He pulled down everything he could reach, broke the girls' best dishes, wiped their precious petunia and the geraniums completely out of existence, and roared with a deep bass voice if anyone attempted to interfere with him. The dog carried mud into the neat little cottage, scratched up the garden, and growled if the girls tried to drive him out. Well, said Mabel disconsolately, in one of the rare moments when the girls were alone, I could stand the baby and the dog, but I can't stand Laura. Laura certainly likes to boss, said Betty, who looked pale and worried. I don't just see what we're going to do about it. I try to be nice to her, but I can't like her. Mother says we must be polite to her, but I don't believe Mother knows just what a queer girl she is. You see, she's always as quiet as can be when there are grown people around. Yes, agreed Mabel. Her company manners are so much properer than mine that Mama says she wishes I were more like her. Well, said Marjorie uncompromisingly. I'm mighty glad you're not. Your manners aren't particularly good, but you have it too set. I think Laura's the most disagreeable girl I ever knew. Just as she fools you into almost liking her, she turns around and scratches you. Perhaps, said Jean, if her people were nicer. By the way, Mother says that after this we must keep the windows shut while Mr. Milligan is splitting wood in his backyard so we can't hear the awful things he says, and if we hear Mr. and Mrs. Milligan quarreling again we mustn't listen. Listen, exclaimed Mabel, we don't need to listen. Their voices keep getting louder and louder until it seems as if they were right in this house. Of course, said Marjorie, it can't be pleasant for Laura at home, but dear me it isn't pleasant for us with her over here. Badly brought up Laura was certainly not a pleasant playmate. She wanted to lead in everything and was amiable only when she was having her own way. She was not satisfied with the way the cottage was arranged but rearranged it to suit herself. She told the girls that their garments were contrived and laughed scornfully at Betty's boyish frocks and heavy shoes. She ridiculed rotund Mabel for being fat and said that Marjorie's nose turned up and that Jean's rather large mouth was a good opening for a young dentist. Before the first week was fairly over the four girls who had lived so happily before her arrival were grieved, indignant or downright angry three-fourths of the time. Laura had one habit that annoyed the girls excessively, although at first they had found it rather amusing. Later, however, owing perhaps to a certain rasping quality in Laura's voice, it grew very tiresome. She transposed the initials of their names. For instance, Betty Tucker became Teddy Bucker, Jeannie Mabes became Meanie Japs, while Mabel became Babel Menett. It was particularly distressing to have Laura speak familiarly in her sharp half-scornful tones of their dear-departed Miss Blossom, whose name was Gertrude, as Bertie Glossom. Mr. Peter Black, of course, became Beter Plack, and Mrs. Bartholomew Crane was Mrs. Cartholomew Brain to Lala's young Laura. I don't think it's exactly respectful to do that to grown-up people's names, protested Betty one day. Poo! said Laura. Mrs. Cartholomew Brain looks just like an old wash tub. She's so fat. Who'd be respectful to a wash tub? There goes Dr. Ducker, Teddy Bucker. Huh! I'd hate to be a parson's daughter. They're always as poor as church mice. What did you say your mother's first name is? I didn't say, and I'm not going to, returned Betty. Well, anyhow, her bonnet went out of style four years ago. I should think the parish'd take up a subscription and get her a new one. I wish, Laura, said exasperated Jean another day, that you wouldn't meddle with our things. This bedroom is mine and Betty's, and the other one is Mabel's and Marjorie's. We wouldn't think of looking into each other's private treasure-boxes. I've seen you open mine half a dozen times this week. The things are all keepsakes, and I'd rather not have them handled. Huh! I guess I'll handle them if I want to. My mother can't keep me out of her bureau drawers, and I don't think you're so very much smarter. A day or two later the girls of Dandelion Cottage were invited to a party in another portion of the town. The invitations were left at their own cottage-store, and the delighted girls began at once to make plans for the party. Let's carry our new handkerchiefs, suggested Jean, going to her treasure-box. I believe I'll take mine home with me. I dreamed last night that the cottage was on fire and that mine got burned. Besides, I'll have to get dressed at home for the party, and it would be hand-eared to have it there. Guess I will, too, said Betty. Great idea, said Marjorie, taking her own-box from its shelf. I never should have thought of anything so bright. Let's all write to Miss Blossom and tell her that we carried our— Why, mine isn't in my box. Neither is mine, cried Mabel, who had turned quite pale at the discovery. It was there this morning. Girls, did any of you touch our handkerchiefs? Of course we didn't, said Jean. See, here's mine with Jay on it, and there are no others in my box. Of course not, echoed Laura. Mine's here all right, said Betty, who had been struggling with her box which opened hard. Are you sure you left them in your boxes? Certain sure, replied Mabel, I saw it this morning. So did I see mine, asserted Marjorie, after I had shown it to Auntie Jane I brought it back to put in my treasure-box. Laura, asked Jean, was Marjorie's handkerchief in her box when you looked in it this morning? I heard the cover make that funny little clicking noise that it always makes, and just a minute afterwards you came out of her room. I—I don't know, stammered Laura. I didn't see it. I never touched her old box. If you say I did, I'll go right home and tell my mother you called me a thief. I'm going now, anyway. The girls were in the dining-room, just outside of the back bedroom door. As Laura was brushing past Jean, the opening of the new girl's blouse caught in such a fashion on the corner of the sideboard that the garment, which fastened in front, came unbutton from top to bottom. From its bulging front dropped Betty's bead chain, various articles of dowel's clothing, and the two missing handkerchiefs. They're mine! cried Laura, making a dive for the things. They're not any such thing, cried indignant Jean. I made that dowel's dress myself, and I know the lace on those handkerchiefs. They're my mother's, protested Laura. I took them out of her drawer. They're not, contradicted Mabel, prying Laura's fingers apart and forcing her to drop one of the crumpled handkerchiefs. Look at that monogram. M.B. for Mabel Bennett. It's no such thing, lied Laura stoutly. It stands for Bertha Milligan, and that's my mother's name. Give me that other handkerchief this instant, demanded Jean, giving Laura a slight shake. If you don't, we'll take it away from you. Take the old rag, said Laura. My mother gives away better handkerchiefs than those to beggars. I just took them anyway to scare Vargery Mail and Babel Bennett, the silly babies. After this enlightening experience, the girls never for a moment left their unwelcome visitor alone in any of the rooms of Bandaline Cottage. They stood her for almost a week longer, principally because there seemed to be no way of getting rid of her. Mabel indeed had several lively quarrels with her during that time, because quick-tempered Mabel, always strictly truthful herself, could not tolerate deceit in anyone else, and she had, of course, lost all faith in Laura. The end came suddenly one Friday afternoon. Miss Blossom had sent to the girls by mail a photograph of her own charming self, and nothing that the cottage contained was more precious. After one of the usual tiffs with Mabel, high-handed Laura spitefully scratched a disfiguring mustache right across the beautiful face ruining the priceless treasure beyond repair. Even Laura looked slightly dismayed at the result of her spiteful work. The others for a moment were too horror-stricken for words. Then Mabel with blazing eyes sprang to her feet and flung the cottage door wide open. You go home, Laura Milligan, she cried. Don't you ever dare to come inside this house again? Yes, go, cried Mild Betty, for once thoroughly roused. We've tried to be nice to you, and there hasn't been a single day that you haven't been rude and horrid. Go home this minute. We're done with you. I won't go until I'm good and ready, retorted Laura, tearing the disfigured photograph in two, and scornfully tossing the pieces into a corner. Such a fuss about a skinny old maid's picture. You shan't stay one instant longer, cried indignant Jean, stepping determinatively behind Laura, placing her hands on the girl's shoulders and making a sudden run for the door. There, you're out. Don't you ever attempt to come in again? Betty, grasping the situation and the Milligan baby at the same time, promptly set the boy outside. She had handled him with the utmost gentleness, but he always roared if anyone touched him, and he roared now. Yeah, yelled Laura, I'll tell my mother you pinched him, slapped him, too. Slapped him, too, wailed the baby. Well said Jean, turning the key in the lock. We'll have to keep the door locked after this. Mercy. I never behaved so dreadfully to anybody before, and I hope I'll never have to again. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of Dandelion Cottage by Carol Watson Rankin This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11 An Embarrassing Visitor Up to the time of the unpleasantness with Laura, the girls had unlocked the cottage in the morning, and had left it unlocked until they were ready to go home at night, for the girls spent all their waking hours at Dandelion Cottage. Betty indeed had the care of the youngest two Tucker babies, but they were good little creatures, and when the girls played with their dolls, they were glad to include the two placid babies, just as if they two were dolls. The littlest baby in particular made a remarkably comfortable plaything, for it was all one to him whether he slept in Jean's biggest dolls cradle, or in the middle of the dining room table, as long as he was permitted to sleep sixteen hours out of the twenty-four. When he wasn't to sleep, he sucked his thumb contentedly, crowed happily on one of the cottage beds, or rolled cheerfully about on the cottage floor. The older baby, too, obligingly stayed wherever the girls happened to put him. After this experience with the Tucker infants, the Milligan baby had proved a great disappointment to the girls, for they had hoped to use him, too, as an animated doll, but he had refused a steadfastly to make friends even with Betty, whose way with babies was something beautiful to see. The girls were all required to do their own mending, but they found it no hardship to do their darning on their own doorstep on sunny days, or around the dining room table if the north wind happened to be blowing, for they always had so many interesting things to talk about. During the daytime the cottage was never left entirely alone. It was occupied even at mealtimes, because the four families dined and sucked at different hours. For instance, Marjorie's Auntie Jane always liked her tea at half past five, but Jean's people did not dine until seven. Owing to the impossibility of capturing all the boys at one time, supper at the Tucker house was a movable feast, so Betty usually ate whenever she found it most convenient. As for Mabel, it is doubtful as she knew the exact hours for meals at the Bennett house because she was invariably late. After the handkerchief episode, the girls planned that one or another of them should always be in the cottage from the time that it was opened in the morning, until it was again locked for the night. The morning after the later quarrel, however, the girls met by previous arrangement on Mabel's doorstep, went in a body to the cottage, and after they were all inside carefully locked the door. We'll be on the safe side anyway, said Jean, though I wouldn't think that Laura would ever want to come near the place again. Oh, she'll come fast enough, said Mabel. She's cheeky enough for anything. Do you suppose she's told her mother about it? She said she was going to. Pasha, said Marjorie. She was always threatening to tell her mother, but nothing ever came of it. If she told her mother half the things she said she was going to, she wouldn't have had time to eat or sleep. It was hopeless, the girls had decided, to attempt to mend the ruined photograph. So, at Betty's suggestion, they had sorrowfully cut it into four pieces of equal size, which they divided between them. They had just laid the precious fragments tenderly away in their treasure boxes when the doorbell rang with such a loud, prolonged, jangling peal that everybody jumped. Laura, exclaimed the four girls. No, said Jean cautiously drawing back the curtain of the front window and peeping out. It's Mrs. Milligan. Goodness, whispered Marjorie. There's no knowing what Laura told her. She never did tell anything straight. Let's keep still, said Mabel. Perhaps she'll think there's nobody home. No hope of that, said Jean. She saw us come in. But Pasha, she can't hurt us anyway. No, said Marjorie. What's the use of being afraid? We didn't do anything to be ashamed of. Auntie Jane says we should have turned Laura out the day she took the handkerchiefs. I'm not exactly afraid, said Betty, but I don't like Mrs. Milligan. Still, we'll have to let her in, I suppose. A second vigorous peal at the bell warned them that their visitor was getting impatient. You're the biggest and the most dignified, said Marjorie, giving Jean a shove. You go. Don't ask her in if you can help it, warned Betty in a pleading whisper. The doorbell sounds as if she didn't like us very well. But the visitor did not wait to be asked to come in. The moment Jean turned the key, the door was flung open and Mrs. Milligan brushed past the astonished quartet and sailed into the parlor, where she seated herself bolt upright on the cozy corner. I'd like to know, demanded Mrs. Milligan in a hard, cold tone that fell unpleasantly on the cottageer's ears, if you consider it a ladylike for four great overgrown girls to pitch into one poor innocent little child and a helpless baby. Your conduct yesterday was simply outrageous. You might have injured those children for life, or even broken the baby's back. Broken the baby's back, gasped Betty in honest amazement, why I simply lifted him with my two hands and set him just outside the door. I never was rough with any baby in all my life. I happened to know on excellent authority, said Mrs. Milligan, that you slapped both of those helpless children and threw them down the front steps. Laura was so excited about it that she couldn't sleep, and the poor baby cried half the night. We fear that he is injured internally. Nobody here injured them, said Mabel. He always cries all the time anyhow. We did put them out, and for a very good reason, said Jean, speaking as respectfully as she could. But we certainly didn't hurt either of them. I'm sorry if the baby isn't well, but I know it isn't our fault. Laura walked down the steps, said Betty, and the baby turned over and slid down on his stomach the way he always does. I should think that a minister's daughter, said Mrs. Milligan, with a withering glance at poor shrinking Betty, would scorn to tell such lies. Betty, who had never before been accused of untruthfulness, looked at the picture of conscious guilt. A tide of crimson flooded her cheeks, and she fingered the buttons on her blouse nervously. She was too dumbfounded to speak a word in her own defence. Mabel, however, was only too ready. Betty never told a lie in her life, cried the indignant little girl. It was your own Laura that told stories, if anybody did, and I guess somebody did all right. Laura never tells the truth. She doesn't know how to. I have implicit confidence in Laura, returned Mrs. Milligan frowning at Mabel. I believe every word she says. Well, retorted dauntless Mabel, that's more than the rest of us do. We kept count one day, and she told seventy-two fibs that we know of. Oh, Mabel, do hush, pleaded scandalised Betty. Hush, nothing, said Mabel, not to be deterred. I'm only telling the truth. Laura took her handkerchiefs and then fibbed about it, and we missed a dozen things since that she probably carried off, and— Mabel, Mabel, warned Jean, pressing her hand over Mabel's two reckless lips. Don't you know that we decided not to say a word about those other things? They didn't amount to anything, and we'd rather have peace than to make a fuss about them. I can see very plainly, said Mrs. Milligan with a cold disapproval, that you're not at all the proper sort of children for my little Laura to play with. I forbid you to speak to her again. I don't care to have her associate with you. I can believe all she says about you, and I've never been treated so rudely in my life. Apologise, Mabel, whispered Jean, whose arm was still about the younger girl's neck. If I was rude, said candid Mabel, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to be in plight, but every word I said about Laura was true. I shall not accept your apology, said Mrs. Milligan, rising to depart, until you've sent a written apology to Laura, and have retracted everything you've said about her besides. It'll never be accepted, then, said quick-tempered Mabel, for we haven't done anything to apologise for. No, Mrs. Milligan, said Jean in her even pleasant voice. No apology to Laura can ever come from us. We stood her just as long as we could, and then we turned her out just as kindly as anyone could have done it. I told Mother all about it last night, and she agreed that there wasn't anything else we could have done. So did Mama, said Betty. So did Auntie Jane. Well, said Mrs. Milligan, pausing on the porch, I'd thank you young gossips to keep your tongues and your hands off my children in the future. Jean closed the door, and the four girls looked at one another in silence. None of their own relatives were at all like Mrs. Milligan, and they didn't know just what to make of their unpleasant experience. At last Marjorie gave a long sigh. Well, said she, I came awfully near telling her when she forbade our playing with Laura that my Auntie Jane has forbidden me to even speak to her poor abused Laura. As for me, said Mabel with lofty scorn, I don't need to be forbidden. Come, girls, said Jean, I'm sorry it had to happen, but I'm glad the matters ended. Let's not talk about it any more. Let's have one of our own good old days, the kind we had before Laura came. I'll tell you what we'll do, said Betty, we'll each write out a bill of fare for Mr. Black's dinner party, and we'll see how many different things we can think of. In that way we'll be sure not to forget anything. But the Milligan's, breathed Marjorie, promptly seeing through Betty's tactful scheme. The Milligan matter, however, was not by any means ended. It was true that the girls paid no further attention to Laura, but this did not deter that rather vindictive young person from annoying the little cottagers in every way that she possibly could, although she was afraid to work openly. As Laura knew, the girls took great pride in their little garden. Betty's good-natured big brother Rob had offered to take care of their tiny lawn, and he kept it smooth and even. The round pansy bed daily yielded handfuls of great purple, white, or golden blossoms. The thrifty nasturtiums were beginning to bloom with creditable freedom, and many of the different, prettily-foilaged little plants in the long bed near the Milligan's fence were opening their first curious, many-colored flowers. Some of the vegetables were positively getting radishes and carrots on their roots, as Betty put it. The pride of the vegetable garden, however, was a huge rampant vine that threatened to take possession of the entire yard. There was just the one plant, no one knew where the seed came from or how it had managed to get itself planted, but there it was, close beside the back fence. For want of a better name the girls called it the accident, and they expected wonderful things from it when the great yellow trumpet-shaped flowers should give place to fruit, although they didn't know in the least what kind of crop to look for, but this made it all the more delightful. Perhaps it'll be pumpkins, said Jean. I guess I'd better hunt up a recipe for pumpkin pie, so as to be ready when the time comes. Or those funny pale green squashes that are scalloped all around the edge like a dish, said Marjorie. Or cucumbers, said Betty. I took Mrs. Crane a leaf one day, and she said it might be cucumbers. Or watermelons, said Mabel. Wouldn't it be grand if it should happen to be watermelons? What I'm wondering is, said Jean, whether there's any danger of the vines going around the house and taking possession of the front yard too. I could almost believe that this was a seedling of Jack's bean stock, except that it runs on the ground instead of up. If it tries to go around the corner, laughed Betty, we'll train it up the back of the house. Wouldn't it be fun to have pumpkins or squashes or cucumbers or melons, or maybe all of them at once growing on our roof? The day after Mrs. Milligan's visit, Laura, who was not invited to the party, and who found time heavy on her hands, watched the girls, after stopping for Marjorie, set out in their pretty summer dresses to spend the afternoon at a young friend's house. Laura gazed after them enviously. There was no reason why she should have been invited, for she had never met the little girl who was giving the party, but she didn't think of that. Instead she foolishly laid the unintentional slight at the little cottageer's door. Mrs. Milligan was sewing on the doorstep and had given Laura a dish-towel to him. Saying something about hunting up a thimble, Laura went to the kitchen, took the bread knife from the table drawer, stole quietly out of the back door, and slipped between the bars of the back fence. Reaching this blended vine that the girls loved so dearly, she parted the huge rough leaves, until she found the spot where the vine started from the ground. First, looking about cautiously to make certain that no one was in sight, spiteful Laura drew the knife back and forth against the thick stem, until, with a sudden sharp crack, the sturdy vine parted from its root. Two minutes later, Laura, looking the picture of propriety, sat on the Milligan's doorstep, hemming her dish-towel. Of course, when the girls made their next daily excursion about their garden, they were almost broken-hearted at finding their beloved flat vine on the ground, all withered and dead. Oh, mourned Marjorie, now we'll never know what the accident was going to bear—pumpkins or squashes or— Yes, said Mabel, who was blinking hard to keep the tears back. That's the hardest part of it. It was cut off in its prime. Oh, dear, I guess I'm going to cry. What could have done it, asked Betty, who was not far from following Mabel's example. Has anyone stepped on it? Perhaps a potato bug ate it off, suggested Jean. A two-legged potato bug, I guess, said Marjorie, who had been examining the ground carefully. See here are small sharp heel prints close to the root. Whose handkerchief is this? asked Mabel, picking up a small tightly crumpled ball and unrolling it gingerly. There's a name on it, but my eyes are so teary I can't make it out. It looks like Milligan, said Betty, turning it over, but we can't tell how long it's been here. Horrid as she is, said charitable Jean. It doesn't seem as if even Laura would do such a mean thing. I can't believe it of her. I can, said Mabel. If she had a squash vine or a pumpkin vine, I'd go straight over and spoil it this minute. No, no, said Jean. We mustn't be horrid just because other folks are. We won't pay any attention to her. We'll just be patient. The girls found four small green egg-like objects growing on the withered vine. They cut them off, and these two they laid tenderly away in their treasure-boxes. When we get old, said Mabel tearfully, we'll take them out and tell our grandchildren all about the accident. But even this prospect did not quite console the girls for the loss of their treasure. For the next few days Laura remained contented with doing on the sly whatever she could to annoy the girls. One evening when the girls had gone home for the night and while her mother was away from home Laura threw a brick at one of the cottage windows breaking a pane of glass. Reaching in through the hole she scattered handfuls of sand on the clean floor that the girls had scrubbed that morning. Another night she emptied a basket full of potato pairings on their neat front porch and dobbed molasses on their doorknob. Mean little tricks prompted by a mean little nature. It wasn't much fun, however, to annoy persons who refused to show any sign of being annoyed. And Laura presently changed her tactics. Taking a large bone from the pantry one day when the girls were sitting on their doorstep, she first showed it to Towser, the Milgan dog, and then threw it over the fence into the very middle of the pansy bed. Of course the big clumsy dog bounded over the low fence after the bone, crushing many of the delicate pansy plants. After that at regular intervals Laura threw sticks and other bones into the other beds with very much the same result. The next time Rob cut the grass he noticed the untidy appearance of the beds and asked the reason. The girls explained. I'll shoot that dog if you say so, offered Rob with honest indignation. No, no, said Betty, it isn't the dog's fault. No, said Jean, we're not sure that the dog isn't the least objectionable member of the Milgan family. How would it do if I licked the boy? asked Rob. It wouldn't do it all, replied Betty. He works somewhere in the daytime and he never even looks in this direction when he's home. He's afraid of girls. Then I guess you'll have to grin and bear it, said Rob, moving off with the lawnmower, since neither of my remedies seems to fit the case. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of Dandelion Cottage by Carol Watson-Renkin This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12 A Lively Afternoon It happened one day that Mrs. Milligan was obliged to spend a long afternoon at the dentists, leaving Laura in charge of the house. Unfortunately it happened, too, that this was the day when the sewing society met and Mrs. Tucker had asked Betty to stay home for the afternoon because the next to the youngest baby was ill with a creepy cold and could not go out of doors to the cottage. Devoted, Jean offered to stay with her beloved Betty, who gladly accepted the offer. Before going to Betty's, however, she ran over to Dandelion Cottage to tell the other girls about it. Mabel asked Jean a little doubtfully. Are you quite sure you'll be able to turn a deaf ear if Laura should happen to bother you? I'm half afraid to leave you two girls here alone. You needn't be, said Mabel. I wouldn't associate with Laura if I were paid for it. She isn't my kind. No, said Marjorie. You needn't worry a mite. We're going to sit on the doorstep and read a perfectly lovely book that Aunt Jane found at the library. It's one that she liked when she was a little girl. We're going to take turns reading it aloud. Well, that certainly ought to keep you out of mischief. You'll be safe enough if you stick to your book. If anything should happen, just remember that I'm at Betty's. Yes, Grandma, said Marjorie with a comical grimace. Jean laughed, ran around the house, and squeezed through the hole in the back fence. Half an hour later, lonely Laura, discovering the girls on their doorstep, amused herself by sicking the dog at them. Towser, however, merely growled lazily for a few moments and then went to sleep in the sunshine. He at least cherished no particular grudge against the girls, and probably by that time he recognized them as neighbors. Then Laura perched herself on one of the square posts of the dividing fence and began to sing, in her high, rasping, exasperating voice, a song that was almost too personal to be pleasant. It had taken Laura almost two hours to compose it some days before, and fully another hour to commit it to memory. But she sang it now in an off-hand, haphazard way that led the girls to suppose that she was making it up as she went along. It ran thus. There's a lanky girl named Jean, who's altogether too lean. Her mouth is too big and she wears a wig, and her eyes are bright sea green. Of course it was quite impossible to read even a thrillingly interesting book with rude Laura making such a disturbance. If the girls had been wise they would have gone into the house and closed the door, leaving Laura without an audience. But they were not wise, and they were curious. They couldn't help waiting to hear what Laura was going to sing about the rest of them, and they did not need to wait long. Laura promptly obliged them with the second verse. There's another named Marjorie Vale, who's about the size of a snail. Her teeth are light blue and hasn't but two, and her hair is much too pale. Laura had, in several instances, sacrificed truth for the sake of rhyme, but enough remained to injure the vanity of the subjects of her song very sharply. Marjorie breathed quickly for a moment and flushed pink, but gave no audible sign that she had heard. Laura somewhat disappointed proceeded. There's a silly young lass called Bet, thinks she's everybody's sweet pet. She slapped my brother, fibbed to my mother. I know what she's going to get. Mabel snorted indignantly over this injustice to her beloved Betty and started to rise, but Marjorie promptly seized her skirt and dragged her down. Laura, however, saw the movement and was correspondingly elated. It showed in her voice. But the worst of the lot is Mabel. She eats all the pie she's able. She's round as a ball, has no waist at all, and her manners are bad at the table. Marjorie giggled. She had no thought of being disloyal, but this verse was certainly a close fit. You just let me go, muttered Mabel, crimson with resentment and struggling to break away from Marjorie's restraining hand. I'll push her off that post. Hush, said diplomatic Marjorie, perhaps there's more to the song. But there wasn't. Laura began at the beginning and sang all the verses again, giving particular emphasis to the ones concerning Mabel and Marjorie. This, of course, grew decidedly monotonous. The girls got tired of the constant repetition of the silly song long before Laura did. There was something about the song too that caught and held their attention. Irresistibly attracted, held by an exasperating fascination, neither girl could help waiting for her own special verse. But while this was going on, Mabel, with a finger in the ear nearest Laura, was insidiously scribbling something on a scrap of paper. As everybody knows, the poetic muse doesn't always work when it is most needed, and Mabel was sadly handicapped at that moment. She was not satisfied with her hasty scrawl, but in the circumstances it was the best she could do. Suddenly, before Marjorie realized what was about to happen, Mabel was shouting back to an ear quite as objectionable as the one Laura was singing. There's a very rude girl named Laura, whose ways fill all with horror. She's all the things she says we are. All know this to their sorrow. Ya, ya, retorted quick-witted Laura, there isn't a rhyme in your old song. If I couldn't rhyme better than that I'd learn how. Come over and I'll teach you. For an instant Mabel looked decidedly crushed. No poet likes her rhymes disparaged. Laura, noting Mabel's crest-falling attitude, went into gales of mocking laughter, and when Mabel looked at Marjorie for sympathy Marjorie's face was wreathed in smiles. It was too much. Mabel hated to be laughed at. I can rhyme, cried Mabel, springing to her feet and giving vent to all her grievances at once. My table manners are good. I'm not fat. I've got just as much waste as you have. You've got more, shrieked, delighted Laura. Faithless Marjorie struck by this indubitable truth laughed outright. You can't make Indian bead chains, sputtered Mabel, trying hard to find something crushing to say. You can't make pancakes. You can't drive nails. Yeah, retorted Laura, who was right in her element. You can't throw straight. Neither can you. I can. If I could find anything to throw, I'd prove it. Just at this unfortunate moment a grocery man arrived at the Milligan house with a basket full of beautiful scarlet tomatoes. In another second Laura, anxious to prove her ability, had jumped from the fence, seized the basket, and with unerring aim, was delightedly pelting her astonished enemy with a gorgeous fruit. Mabel caught one full in the chest, and as she turned fully another landed square in the middle of her light blue gingham back. Marjorie's shoulder stopped a third before the girls retreated to the house, leaving Laura a picturesque figure on the high post, shouting derisively. Proved it, didn't I? Chi, I proved it! Marjorie pleading that discretion was the better part of valor begged Mabel to stay indoors. But Mabel, who had received, and undoubtedly deserved, the worst of the encounter, was for instant revenge. Rushing to the kitchen she seized the pan of hard little green apples that Grandma Pike had bequeathed the girls, and flew with them to the porch. Mabel's first shot took Laura by surprise, and landed squarely between her shoulders. Mabel was surprised, too, because throwing straight was not one of her accomplishments. She hadn't hoped to do more than frighten her exasperating little neighbor. Elated by this success, Mabel threw her second apple, which, alas, flew wide of its mark and caught poor unprepared Mr. Milligan, who was coming in at his own gate, just under the jaw, striking in such a fashion that it made the astonish man suddenly bite his tongue. Nobody likes to bite his tongue. Naturally Mr. Milligan was indignant. Indeed, he had every reason to be, for Mabel's conduct was disgraceful, and the little apple was very hard. Entirely overlooking the fact that Laura, who had failed to notice her father's untimely arrival, was still vigorously pelting Mabel, who stood as if petrified on the cottage's steps, and was making no effort to dodge the flying scarlet fruit. Mr. Milligan shouted, Look here, you young imps! I'll see that you're turned out of that cottage for this outrage. We've stood just about enough abuse from you. I don't intend to put up with any more of it. Then, suddenly discovering what Laura, who had turned around in dismay at the sound of her father's voice, was doing, angry Mr. Milligan dragged his suddenly crestfallen daughter from the fence, boxed her ears soundly, and carried what was left of the tomatoes into the house. For that particular basket of fruit had been sent from very far south, and express charges had swelled the price of the unseasonable dainty to a very considerable sum. Marjorie in the cottage kitchen was alternately scolding and laughing at Wobbegon Mabel when Jean and Betty, released from their charge, ran back to Dandelion Cottage. Mabel, crying with indignation, sat on the kitchen stove, rubbing her eyes with a pair of grimy fists. Mabel's hands always gathered to dust. Oh, Mabel, how could you, groaned Jean, when Marjorie had told the afternoon's story? I'll never dare to leave you here again without some sensible person to look after you. Don't you see you've been almost, yes, quite as bad as Laura? I don't care, sobbed unrepentant Mabel, if you'd heard those verses, and Marjorie laughed at me. Couldn't help it, giggled Marjorie, who was perched on the corner of the kitchen table. But surely, reproached, gentle-mannered Jean, it wasn't necessary to throw things. I guess, said Mabel, suddenly sitting up very straight and disclosing a puffy, tear-stained countenance that moved Marjorie to fresh giggles. If you'd felt those icy cold tomatoes go plump in your eye, and every place on your very newest dress, you'd have been pretty mad too. Look at me! I was too surprised to move after I'd hit Mr. Milligan. I never saw him coming at all, and I guess every tomato Laura threw hit me someplace. Yes, confirmed Marjorie. I'll say that much for Laura. She can certainly throw straighter than any girl I ever know. She throws just like a boy. Jean, still worried and disapproving, could not help laughing, for Laura's plump target showed only two good evidence of Laura's skill. Mabel's new light-blue gingham showed a round scarlet spot where each juicy missile had landed. And besides this there were wide muddy circles where her tears had left high watermarks about each eye. But dear me, said Jean, growing sober again, think how low down in horror it will sound when we tell about it at home. Suppose it should get into the papers—apples and tomatoes. If boys had done it it would have sounded bad enough, but for girls to do such a thing. Oh, dear, I do wish I'd been here to stop it. To stop the tomatoes you mean, said Mabel, you couldn't have stopped anything else, for I just had to do something or burst. I felt all the week just like something sizzling in a bottle and waiting to have the cork pulled. I'll never be able to do my suffering in silence the way you and Betty do. Oh, girls, I feel just loads better. Well, you may feel better, said irrepressible Marjorie, but you certainly look a lot worse. With those muddy rings on your face you look just like a little owl that isn't very wise. Oh, dear, mourned Betty, if Miss Blossom had only stayed we wouldn't have had all this trouble with those people. No, said Marjorie shrewdly, Miss Blossom would probably have made Laura over into a very good imitation of an honest citizen. I don't think, though, that even Miss Blossom could make Laura anything more than an imitation, because—well, because she's Laura. It's different with Mabel. Mabel looked up expectantly, and Marjorie, who was in a teasing mood, continued, Yes, said she encouragingly, Miss Blossom might have succeeded in making a nice, polite girl out of Mabel if she'd only had time. How much time, demanded Mabel with sudden suspicion. Oh, about a thousand years, replied Marjorie, skipping prudently behind tall Jean. Never mind Mabel, said Betty, who always sided with the oppressed, slipping a thin arm about Mabel's plump shoulders. We like you pretty well, anyway, and you've certainly had an awful time. Do you think, asked Mabel with sudden concern, that Mr. Milligan could get us turned out of the cottage? You know he threatened to. No, said Betty, the cottage is church property, and no one could do anything about it with Mr. Black away, because he's the senior warden. Father said only this morning that there was all sorts of church business waiting for him. Well, said Mabel with a sigh of relief, Mr. Black wouldn't turn us out, so we're perfectly safe. Guess I'll go out on the porch and sing my Milligan song again. I guess you won't, said Jean. There's a very good tub in the Bennett House, and I'd advise you to go home and take a bath in it. You look as if you needed two baths and a shampoo. Besides, it's almost supper time. Laura's version of the story, unfortunately, differed materially from the truth. There was no gain saying the tomatoes. Mr. Milligan had seen those with his own eyes. But Laura claimed that she had been compelled to use those expensive vegetables as a means of self-defense. According to Laura, whose imagination was as well trained as her arm, she had been the innocent victim of all sorts of persecution at the hands of the four girls. They had called her a thief and had insulted not only her but all the other Milligans. Mabel, she declared, had opened hostilities that afternoon by throwing stones, and poor, abused Laura had only used the tomatoes as a last resort. The apple that struck Mr. Milligan was, she maintained, the very last of about four dozen. Had the Milligans not been prejudiced, they might easily have learned how far from the truth this assertion was, for the porch of dandelion cottage was still bespattered with tomatoes, whereas in the Milligan yard there were no traces of the recent encounter. This, to be sure, was no particular credit to Mabel, for there might have been had Mr. Milligan delayed his coming by a very few minutes, since Mabel's pan still contained seven hard little apples, and Mabel still longed to use them. The Milligans, however, were prejudiced. Although Laura was often rude and disagreeable at home, she was the only little girl the Milligans had. In any quarrel with outsiders they naturally sided with their own flesh and blood, and, in spite of the tomatoes, they did so now. In her mother Laura found a staunch champion. I won't have those stuck-up little imps there another week, said Mrs. Milligan, if you don't see that they're turned out, James, I will. They stick out their tongues at me every time they see me, fibbed Laura, whose own tongue was the only one that had been used for sticking out purposes. They said Ma was no lady, and— I'm going to complain of them this very night, said Mrs. Milligan, with quick resentment. I'll show them whether I'm a lady or not. Who will you complain to? asked Laura, hopefully. The church warden, of course. These cottages both belong to the church. Mr. Black is the girl's best friend, said Laura. He wouldn't believe anything against them. Besides, he's away. Mr. Downing isn't, said Mr. Milligan. I paid him the rent last week. We'll threaten to leave if he doesn't turn them out. He's a sharp businessman, and he wouldn't lose the rent of this house for the sake of letting a lot of children use that cottage. I'll see him to-morrow. No, said Mrs. Milligan, just leave the matter to me. I'll talk to Mr. Downing. Suit yourself, said Mr. Milligan, glad perhaps to shirk a disagreeable task. After supper that evening Mrs. Milligan put on her best hat and went to Mr. Downing's house, which was only about three blocks from her own. The evening was warm and she found Mr. and Mrs. Downing seated on their front porch. Mrs. Milligan accepted their invitation to take a chair, and began at once to explain the reason for her visit. The angry woman's tale lost nothing in the telling. Indeed, it was not hard to discover how Laura came by her habit of exaggerating. When Mrs. Milligan went home half an hour later, Mr. Downing was convinced that the church property was in dangerous hands. He couldn't see what Mr. Black had been thinking of to allow careless impudent children who played with matches, drove nails in the cottage plaster, and insulted innocent neighbors to occupy dandelion cottage. Somehow, said Mrs. Downing when the visitor had departed, I don't like that woman. She isn't quite a lady. Nonsense, my dear, said Mr. Downing, if only half the things she hints at are true, there would be reason enough for closing the cottage. The place doesn't amount to much, I've been told, but a fire started there would damage thousands of dollars worth of property. Besides, there's the rent from the house those people are in. We don't want to lose that, you know. Still, there are always tenants. Not at this time of the year. I'll look into the matter as soon as I can find time. Remember, said Mrs. Downing, thinking of Mrs. Milligan's rasping tones, there are two sides to every story. My dear, said Mr. Downing complacently, I shall listen with a strictest impartiality to both sides. End of CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII OF Dandelion Cottage by Carol Watson Rankin This LibraVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER XIII THE JUNIOR WARDEN By nine o'clock the next morning the girls were all at the cottage as usual. Mrs. Mabes had given the materials for a simple cake, and Jean and Betty were in the kitchen making it. Marjorie singing as she worked was running anti-Jane's carpet sweeper noisily over the parlor rug, while Mabel whistling in accompaniment to Marjorie's song was dusting the sideboard. At all times the cottage furniture received so much unnecessary dusting that it would not have been at all surprising if it had worn thin in spots. When the doorbell rang suddenly and sharply Marjorie's tune stopped short, high in air, and Mabel ran to the window. It's a man, announced Mabel. Mr. Milligan asked Marjorie anxiously. He's moved, so I can't tell. Try the other window, urged Marjorie impatiently. It doesn't look like Mr. Milligan's legs, I can't see the rest of him. They look neat and expensive. Probably it's just an agent. They're kind of thick lately. You go to the door and tell him we're just pretend people, while I'm putting the sweeper out of sight. Good morning, said Mr. Downing. Are you—why, this is a very cozy little place. I had no idea that it was so comfortable. May I come in? Yes, returned Mabel, eyeing him doubtfully. But I think you're probably making a mistake. You see, we're not really truly people. Indeed, said Mr. Downing with an amused glance at plump Mabel. Is it possible you're a ghost? I mean, explained Mabel, we're just children and this is only a playhouse, not a real one. If you have anything to sell or are looking for a boarding place or want to take our senses— No, said Mr. Downing, I don't want either your dollars or your senses. My name is Downing and I'm not selling anything. I called on business. Who is the head of this—this ghostly corporation? It has four, said Mabel. I'll get the rest. Betty and Jean, with grown-up gingham aprons tied about their necks, followed Mabel to the parlor. Mr. Downing had seated himself in one of the chairs, and the girls sat facing him in a bright-eyed row on the couch. Their countenances were so eager and expectant that Mr. Downing found it hard to begin. I've come in, he said, to talk over a little matter of business with you. I understand that you've been having trouble with your neighbors, exchanging complaints. No, said Mabel, honest, turning crimson. It was apples and tomatoes—the milligans are the most troublesome neighbors we've ever had. So, said the visitor, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. Why, I understand that it was quite the other way around. I'd like to hear your version of the difficulty. Jean and Betty, with occasional assistance from Marjorie, and much prompting from Mabel, told him all about it. During the recital Mr. Downing's attention seemed to wander, for his eyes took in every detail of the neat sitting-room, strayed to the prittley paper-to-dining-room, and even rested lingeringly upon the one visible corner of the dainty blue bedroom. Betty had neglected to close the door between the kitchen and the dining-room, which proved unfortunate because the tiny scrap of butter that Jean had left melting in a small pan on the kitchen stove got too hot and with threatening hissing noises began to give forth clouds of thick, disagreeable smoke. Jean, the first of the girls to notice it, flew to the kitchen, snatched a lid from the stove, and with a newspaper for a holder, swept the burning butter, pan and all into the fire. Then the paper in Jean's hand caught fire and for the instant before she stuffed it into the stove and clapped the lid into place, fierce red flames leaped high. To the visitor, prepared by Mrs. Milligan for just such doings, it looked for a moment as if all the rear end of the cottage were in flames, but Jean returned to her place on the couch with an air of what looked to Mr. Downing, very much like almost criminal unconcern. How was Mr. Downing, who did no cooking, to know that paper placed on a cake-baking fire always flares up in an alarming fashion without doing any real harm? He didn't know, and the incident decided the matter he was turning over in his mind. The girls had found it a little hard to tell their story, for it was plain that their visitor was using his eyes rather than his ears. Moreover, they were not at all certain that he had any right to demand the facts in the case. When the story was finished, Mr. Downing looked at the row of interested faces and cleared his throat, but for some reason the words he had meant to speak refused to come. He hadn't supposed that the evicting of unnecessary tenants would prove such an unpleasant task. The tenants, all at once, seemed part of the house, and the man realized suddenly that the losing of the cottage was likely to prove a severe blow to the four little housekeepers. Perhaps it was disconcerting to see the expression of puzzled anxiety that had crept into Betty's great brown eyes, into Jean's hazel ones, into Marjorie's gray and Mabel's blue ones. At any rate, Mr. Downing decided to be well out of the way when the blow should fall. He realized that it would prove a trying ordeal to face all those young eyes filled with indignation and probably with tears. Uh-huh! said Mr. Downing, rising to take his leave. I much obliged to you young ladies. Hum! The number of this house is what, if you please? Number 224, said Betty, whose mind worked quickly. Hum! said Mr. Downing, writing it on the envelope he had taken from his pocket, and moving rather abruptly toward the door, as if desirous to escape as speedily as possible with a knowledge he had gleaned. Thank you very much. I bid you all good morning. Now, what in the world did that man want? demanded Mabel before the front door had fairly closed. Do you suppose he's some kind of a lawyer or—and Mabel turned pale at the thought—a policeman disguised as a human being? Do you suppose the Milligans are going to get us arrested for just two apples and a little poetry? More probably, suggested Jean. He's a burglar. Didn't you notice the way he looked around at everything? I could see that he sort of lost interest after a while, as if he had concluded that we hadn't anything worth stealing. Nonsense, said Betty. I don't know what he does for a living, but he can't be a burglar. He hasn't lived here very long. But he goes to our church and comes to our house divestory meetings. Sometimes on warm Sundays when there's nobody else to do it, he passes the plate. Well, said Mabel, I hope he isn't a policeman weekdays. It's more likely, said Marjorie, that he does reporting for the papers. That time that Auntie Jane was in that railroad accident, a reporter came to our house to interview her, and he asked questions just as that Mr. Downing—was that his name?—did. He took the number of the house, too. Oh, mercy, gasped Mabel, turning suddenly from white to a deep crimson. If those green apples get into the paper, I'll be too ashamed to live. Oh, girls, couldn't we stop him? Couldn't we—couldn't we pay him something not to? It's probably in by now, said Marjorie teasingly. They do it by telegraph, you know. He couldn't have been a reporter, protested Mabel. Reporters are always young and very active, so they can catch lots of scoons. No, scoots. Scoops, corrected Jean. Well, scoops. He was kind of slow and a little bit bald-headed on top. I noticed it when he stooped for his hat. Well, anyway, comforted Jean. Let's not worry about it. Let's rebuild our fire—of course, it's out by now—and finish our cake. In spite of the cakes turning out much better than anyone could have expected, with so many agitated cooks taking turns stirring it, there was something wrong with the day. The girls were filled with uneasy forebodings, and could settle down to nothing. Marjorie felt no desire to sing, and even the cake seemed to have lost something of its flavor. Moreover, when they had stood for a moment on their doorstep to see the new steam road roller go puffing by, Laura had tossed her head triumphantly and shouted tauntingly, I know something I shan't tell. After that, the girls could not help wondering if Laura really did know something—some dreadful thing that concerned them vitally, and was likely to burst upon them at any moment. For the first time in the history of their housekeeping, they could find nothing that they really wanted to do. During the afternoon they had several little disagreements with each other. Mild Jean spoke sharply to Marjorie, and even sweet-tempered Betty was drawn into a lively dispute with Mabel. Moreover, all three of the older girls were inclined to blame Mabel for her fracas with the Milligan's, and the culprit, ashamed one moment and defiant the next, was in a most unhappy frame of mind. Altogether the day was a failure and the four friends parted coldly at least an hour before the usual time. End of CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV of Dandelion Cottage by Carol Watson Rankin This LibraVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER XIV an Unexpected Letter The next morning, Jean, with three large bananas as a peace offering, was the first to arrive at Dandelion Cottage. Jean, a wise young person for her years, had decided that a little hard work would clear the atmosphere, so finding no one else in the house, she made a fire in the stove, put on the kettle, put on the leaf of the kitchen table, and began to take all the dishes from the pantry shelves. Dishwashing in the cottage was always far more enjoyable than this despised occupation usually is elsewhere, owing to the astonishing assortment of crockery the girls had accumulated. No two of the dishes, with the exception of a pair of plates bearing life-sized portraits of the frog that would a wooing go whether his mother would let him or no, bore the same pattern. There was a bewildering diversity, too, in the sizes and shapes of the cups and saucers, and an alarming variety in the matter of color. But as the girls had declared it gleefully a dozen times or more, it would be possible to set the table for seven courses when the time should come for Mr. Blacks and Mrs. Crane's dinner party, because so many of the things almost matched if they didn't quite. Jean was thinking of this as she lifted the dishes from the shelf to the table, and lovingly arranged them in pairs, the pink sugar bowl beside the blue cream pitcher, the yellow coffee cup beside the dull red Chinese tea cup, and the Love the Giver mug beside the, for my little friend, oatmeal bowl. She had just taken down the big dusty cracked pitcher that matched nothing else, which, perhaps, was the reason that it had remained high on the shelf since the day Mabel had used it for her lemonade, when the doorbell rang. Hastily wiping her dirty hands, Jean ran to the door. No one was there, but the postman was climbing the steps of the next house, so Jean slipped her fingers expectantly into the little rusty iron letterbox. Perhaps there was something from Miss Blossom, who sometimes showed that she had not forgotten her little landlady's. Sure enough, there was a large white letter, not from Miss Blossom, to be sure, but from somebody else. To the young Cottagers letters were always joyous happenings. They had no debts, consequently they were unacquainted with bills. With this auspicious beginning, for, of course, the coming of a totally unexpected letter was an auspicious beginning, it was surely going to be a cheerful, perhaps even a delightful day. Jean hummed happily as she laid the unopened letter on the dining-room table. Four, of course, letters somewhat oddly addressed to the four young ladies at 224 Fremont Street, City, would be opened only when all four were present. When Marjorie and Betty came in they fell upon the letter and examined every portion of the envelope, but neither girl could imagine who had sent it. It was impossible to wait for Mabel, who was always late, so Betty obligingly ran to get her. Even so there was still a considerable wait, while Mabel laced her shoes. But presently Betty returned, with Mabel still nibbling very much buttered toast at her heels. You open it, Jean, panted Betty. You can read writing better than we can. Hurry! urged Mabel, who could keep other people waiting much more easily than she herself could wait. Here's a fork to open it with, said Marjorie. I can't find the scissors. Hurry up! Maybe it's a party and we'll have to RSVP right away. Oh, goody! If it is, squealed Mabel, I can wear my new tan oxfords. It's from yours, respectively. No, yours regretfully. John W. Downing, announced Jean. The man that was here yesterday, you know. Read it, read it! pleaded the others, crowding so close that Jean had to lift the letter above their heads in order to see it all. Do hurry up or crazy to hear it. My dear young ladies, read Jean, in a voice that started bravely, but grew fainter with every line. It is with sincere regret that I write to inform you that it no longer suits the convenience of the vestry men to have you occupy the Church Cottage on Fremont Street. It is to be rented as soon as a few necessary repairs can be made, and in the meantime you will oblige us greatly by moving out at once. Please deliver the key at your earliest convenience to me at either my house or this office. Yours regretfully, John W. Downing. For as much as two minutes no one said a word. Jean had laid the open letter on the table. Marjorie and Betty, with their arms tightly locked, as if both felt the need of support, reread the closely written page in silence. When they reached the end they pushed it toward Mabel. What does it say in plain English? asked Mabel, hoping that both her eyes and her ears had deceived her. That somebody else is to have the Cottage, said Jean, and that in the meantime we're to move. In the meantime, blurted Mabel with swift wrath, I should say it was the meantime, the very meanest time anybody ever heard of. I'd just like to know what right yours respectively, John W. Downing, has to turn us out of our own house. I guess we paid our rent. I guess there's blisters on me yet. I guess I ducked dandelions. I guess I— But here Mabel's indignation turned to grief, and with one of her very best howls and a torrent of tears she buried her face in Jean's apron. Betty, asked Jean with her arms around Mabel, do you think it would do any good to ask your father about it? He's the minister, you know, and he might explain to Mr. Downing that we were promised the Cottage for all summer. Papa went away this morning and won't be home for ten days. He has exchanged with somebody for the next two Sundays. My Papa-Papa's away too, sobbed Mabel, or he'd tell that vile Mr. Downing that it was all the Mimimil against fault. They're the folks that ought to be turned out, and I just wa—wish they—they had been. Why wouldn't it be a good idea, suggested Marjorie, for us all to go down to Mr. Downing's office and tell him all about it? You see, he hasn't lived here very long, and perhaps he doesn't understand that we have paid our rent for all summer. Yes, asserted Jean, that would probably be the best thing to do. He won't mind having us go to the office, because he told us to take the key there. But where is his office? I know, said Betty. Here's the address on the letter, and the dentist I go to is right near there, so I can find it easily. Then let's start right away, cried Eager Mabel, on covering a dishevelled head and a tear-stained countenance. Don't let's lose a minute. Mercy know, said Jean, taking Mabel by the shoulders and pushing her before her to the blue room mirror. Do you think you can go any place looking like that? Do you think you look like a desirable tenant? We've all got to be just as clean and neat as we can be. We've got to impress him with our ladylikeness. I'll braid Mabel's hair, offered Betty, if Marjorie will run around the block and get all our hats. I'm wearing Dick's straw one with the blue ribbon just now, Marjorie. You'll find it someplace in our front hall if Tommy hasn't got it on. Bring mine, too, said Jean. It's in my room. I don't know where mine is, said Mabel, but if you can't find it, you'd better wear your Sunday one and lend me your everyday one. I see myself lending you any more hats, said Marjorie, who had, like the other girls, brightened at the prospect of going to Mr. Downings. I haven't forgotten how you left the last one outdoors all night in the rain, and how it looked afterwards when Auntie Jane made me wear it to punish me for my carelessness. You'll go in your own hat or none. Well, said Mabel Meekly, I guess you'll probably find it in my room under the bed, if it isn't in the parlor behind the sofa. Now, remember, said Jean, who was retying the bow on Betty's hair, where all to be polite whatever happens, for we mustn't let Mr. Downing think we're anything like the Milligan's. If he won't let us have the cottage when he knows about the rents being paid, though I'm almost sure he will let us keep it, why, we'll just have to give it up and not let him see that we care. I'll be good, promised Betty. You needn't be afraid of me, said Mabel. I wouldn't humble myself to speak to such a despicable man. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Dandelion Cottage by Carol Watson Rinkin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 15 An Obdurate Landlord Twenty minutes later, when Mr. Downing roared, come in, in the terrifying voice he usually reserved for agents and other unexpected or unwelcome visitors. He was plainly very much surprised to see four pale girls with shocked, reproachful eyes file in and come to an embarrassed stand still, just inside the office door, which closed of its own accord and left them imprisoned with the enemy. They waited quietly. Oh, good morning, said he, in a much milder tone, as he swung about in his revolving chair. What can I do for you? Have you brought the key so soon? We came, said Jean, propelled suddenly forward by a vigorous push from the rear, to see you about Dandelion Cottage. We think you've made a mistake. Indeed, said Mr. Downing, who did not at any time like to be considered mistaken. Suppose you explain. So sweet-voiced Jean explained all about digging the Dandelions to pay the rent, about Mr. Black's giving them the key at the end of the week and about all the lovely times they had had and were still hoping to have in their precious cottage before giving it up for the winter. Mr. Downing personally did not like Mr. Black. He had a poor opinion of the older man's business ability and perhaps a somewhat exalted opinion of his own. He considered Mr. Black old-fashioned and far too easygoing. He felt that parish affairs were more likely to flourish in the hands of a younger, shrewder, and more modern person, and he had an idea that he was that person. At any rate, now that Mr. Black was out of town, Mr. Downing was glad of an opportunity to display his own superior shrewdness. He would show the vestry a thing or two and incidentally increase the parish income, which, as everybody knew, stood greatly in need of increasing. He had no patience with slipshod methods. He was truly sorry when business matters compelled him to appear hard-hearted, but to him it seemed little short of absurd for a man of Mr. Black's years to waste on four small girls a cottage that might be bringing in a comfortable sum every month in the year. Now that's a pretty little story, said Mr. Downing, when Jean had finished, but you see you've already had the cottage more than long enough to pay you for pulling those few weeds. Few exclaimed Mabel in indignant protest and forgetting her promise of silence. Few! Why, there were billions of them! If we'd been paid two cents a hundred for them, we'd all be rich. Mr. Black promised us we could have that cottage for all summer, and our rent hasn't half-perspired yet. She means expired, explained Marjorie, but she's right for once. Mr. Black did say we could stay there all summer, and it isn't quite August yet, you know. Hmm! said Mr. Downing. Nobody said anything to me about any such arrangement, and I am keeping the books. I don't know what Mr. Black could have been thinking of if he made any such foolish promises that. Of course, it's not binding. Why, that cottage ought to be renting for ten or twelve dollars a month. But the plaster's very bad, pleaded Betty eagerly, and the roof leaks in every room in the house but one, and some things of the matter underneath, so it's too cold for folks to live in during the winter. It was vacant for a long time before we had it. It looked very comfortable to me, said Mr. Downing, who had lived in the town for only a few months, and neither knew nor suspected the real condition of the house. I'm afraid your arrangement with Mr. Black doesn't hold good. Mr. Morgan and I think it best to have the house vacated at once. You see, we're in danger of losing the rent from the next house, because the milligans have threatened to move out if you don't. If—if seven dollars and a half would do you any good, said Mabel, and if you're mean enough to take all the money we've got in this world— I'm not, said Mr. Downing. I'm only reasonable, and I want you to be reasonable, too. You must look at this thing from a business standpoint. You see, the rent from those two houses should bring in twenty-five dollars a month, which isn't more than a sufficient return for the money invested. The tax is— A note for you, Mr. Downing? said a boy who had quietly opened the office door. Why, said Mr. Downing, when he had read the note, this is really quite a remarkable coincidence. This communication is from Mr. Milligan, who has found a desirable tenant for the cottage he is now in, and wishes himself to occupy the cottage you are going to vacate. Very clever idea on Mr. Milligan's part. This will save him five dollars a month and is a most convenient arrangement all around. He wishes to move in at once. Mr. Milligan! gasped three of the astonished girls. Those Milligans in our house! cried Mabel. Well, isn't that the worst? You see, said Mr. Downing, it is really necessary for you to move at once. I think you had better begin without further loss of time. Good morning, good morning, all of you, and please believe me, I am sorry about this, but it can't be helped. I hope, said Mabel, summoning all her dignity for a parting shot, that you will never live long enough to regret this, this outrage. There are seven rolls of paper on the walls of that cottage that belong to us, and we expect to be paid for every one of them. How much? asked Mr. Downing, suppressing a smile, for Mabel was never more amusing than when she was very angry. Five cents a roll, thirty-five cents altogether. Mr. Downing gravely reached into his trouser's pocket, fished up a handful of loose change, scrupulously counted out three dimes and a nickel, and handed them to Mabel, who, with averted eyes and chin held unnecessarily high, accepted the price of the blossom wallpaper haughtily, and following the others, stocked from the office. The unhappy girls could not trust themselves to talk as they hastened homeward. They held hands tightly, walking four abreast along the quiet street, and barely managed to keep the tears back, and the rapidly swelling lumps in their little throats successfully swallowed, until Jean's trembling fingers had unlocked the cottage door. Then, with one accord, they pushed pel-melle for the blue room bed, hurled themselves upon its excelsior pillows, and burst into tears. Jean and Betty cried silently but bitterly. Marjorie wept audibly with long, shuttering sobs. But Mabel simply bawled. Mabel always did her crying on the excellent principle that, if a thing were worth doing at all, it was worth doing well. She was doing it so well on this occasion that Jean, who seldom cried and whose puffed scarlet eyelids contrasted oddly and rather pathetically with her colourless cheeks, presently sat up to Ramon Strait. Mabel, she said, slipping in arm about the chief mourner. Do you want the milligans to hear you? We're on their side of the house, you know. Jean couldn't have used a better argument. Mabel stopped short in the middle of one of her very best howls, sat up and shook her head vigorously. Well, I just guess I don't, said she. I'd die first. I thought so, said Jean, with just a faint glimmer of a smile. We mustn't let those people guess how awfully we care. Go bathe your eyes, Mabel. There must be a little warm water in the tea kettle. Then the comforter turned to Betty and made the appeal that was most likely to reach that always ready-to-help young person. Come, Betty, dear. You've cried long enough. We must get to work, for we've a tremendous lot to do. Don't you suppose that if we had all the things packed in baskets or bundles we could get a few of your brothers to help us move out after dark? I just can't let those milligans gloat over us while we go back and forth with things. Betty's only response was a sob. Where in the world can we put the things? asked Marjorie, sitting up suddenly and displaying a blotched and swollen countenance very unlike her usual fair rose-tinted face. Of course we can each take our dolls and books home, but our furniture. I'm going to ask Mother if we can store it upstairs in our barn. I'm sure she'll let us. Oh, I wish Mr. Black were here. It doesn't seem possible we've really got to move. There must be some way out of it. Oh, Betty, couldn't we write to Mr. Black? It would take too long, sobbed Betty, sitting up and mopping her eyes with the muzzle and window curtain, which she could easily reach from the foot of the bed. He's way off in Washington. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear. Why couldn't we telegraph? demanded Marjorie, with whom hope died hard. Telegrams go pretty fast, don't they? They cost terribly, said Betty. They're almost as expensive as express packages. Still, we might find out what it costs. I don't telegraph mad, wheezed Mabel from the wash basin. I'll go home and telephone him and ask him what it costs. I've heard by Father Kibbe him messages lots of times. Oh, by, by those is all stuffed up. Try a handkerchief, suggested Jean. Go ask if you want to. It won't do any harm, nor probably any good. Mabel ran home, taking care to keep her back turned toward the milligan house. During her brief absence, the girls bathed their eyes and made sundry other futile attempts to do away with all outward signs of grief. He says, cried Mabel, bursting in excitedly, that sixty cents is the regular price in the daytime, but it's forty cents for a night message. It seems kind of mean to wake folks up in the middle of the night just to save twenty cents, doesn't it? Yes, said Betty. I couldn't be impolite enough to do that to anybody I like as well as I like Mr. Black. If we haven't enough money to send a daytime message, we mustn't send any. Well, we haven't, said Jean. We've only thirty-five cents. And we wouldn't have that, said Mabel, if I hadn't remembered that wallpaper just in the nick of time. Strangely enough, not one of the girls thought of the money in the bank. Perhaps it did not occur to them that it would be possible to remove any portion of their precious seven dollars and a half without withdrawing at all. They knew little of business matters. Nor did they think of appealing to their parents for aid in this crisis. Indeed, they were all too dazed by the suddenness and tremendousness of the blow to think very clearly about anything. The sum needed seemed a large one to the girls, who habitually bought a sense worth of candy at a time from the generous proprieture of the little corner shop. Mabel, the only one with an allowance, was, to her father's way of thinking, a hopeless little spend-thrift already deeply plunged in debt by her unpaid fines for lateness to meals. The Tucker income did not go round even for the grown-ups, so of course there were few pennies for the Tucker children. Marjorie's Auntie Jane had ideas of her own on the subject of spending money for little girls. Marjorie did not suspect that the good but rather austere woman made a weekly pilgrimage to the bank for the purpose of religiously depositing a small sum in her niece's name. And if she had known it, Marjorie would probably have been improvident enough to prefer spot cash in smaller amounts. Only that morning tender-hearted Jean had heard patient Mrs. Mapes lamenting because butter had gone up two cents a pound and because all the bills had seemed larger than those of the preceding month. Jean always took the family bills very much to heart. The girls sorrowfully concluded that there was nothing left for them to do but to obey Mr. Downing. They had looked forward with dread to giving up the cottage when winter should come, but the idea of losing it in mid-summer was a thousand times worse. We'll just have to give it up, said grieved little Betty. There's nothing else we can do with Mr. Blackaway. When I go home to-night I'll write to him and apologize for not being able to keep our promise about the dinner party. That's the hardest thing of all to give up. But you don't know his address, objected Jean. Yes, I do, because Father wrote to him about some church business this morning before going away and gave Dick the letter to Mail. Of course Dick forgot all about it and left it on the hall mantelpiece. It's probably there yet, for I'm the only person that ever remembers to Mail Father's letters. He forgets them himself most of the time. Now let's get to work, said Jean. Since we have to move, let's pretend we really want to. I've always thought it must be quite exciting to really truly move. You see, we must get it over before the Milligan's guests that we've begun, and there isn't any too much time left. I'll begin to take down the things in the parlor and tie them up in the bed-clothes. We'll leave all the curtains until the last, so that no one will know what we're doing. I'll help you, said Betty. Mabel and I might be packing the dishes, said Marjorie. It will be easier to do it while we have the table left to work on. Come along, Mabel. Mabel followed obediently. When the forlorn pair reached the kitchen, Marjorie announced her intention of exploring the little shed for empty baskets, leaving Mabel to stack the cups and plates in compact piles. Mabel, without knowing just why she did it, picked up her old friend the cracked lemonade pitcher and gave it a little shake. Something rattled. Mabel always, an inquisitive young person, thrust her fingers into the dusty depths to bring up a piece of money. Two pieces, three pieces, four pieces. Oh! she gasped. It's my lemonade money! Oh, what a lucky omen! Girls! The next instant Mabel clapped a plump, dusty hand over her own lips to keep them from announcing the discovery, and then, stealthily concealing the twenty cents in her pocket that still contained the wallpaper money, she stole quickly through the cottage and ran to her own home. The girls were indignant later when they discovered Mabel's apparent desertion. It was precisely like Mabel, they said, to shirk when there was anything unpleasant to be done. For once, however, they were wronging Mabel. Poor, self-sacrificing Mabel, who, with fifty-five cents at her disposal, was planning a beautiful surprise for her unappreciative cottage-maid, the girls might have known that nothing short of an ambitious project were saving the cottage from the Milgans, would have kept the child away when so much was going on. For Mabel was at that very moment doing what was, for her, the hardest kind of work. All alone in her own room at home she was laboriously composing a telegram. She had never sent a telegram, nor had she even read one. She could not consult her mother because Mrs. Bennet had inconsiderately gone downtown to do her marketing. Mr. Bennet, however, was a very busy man and sometimes received a number of important messages in one day. Mabel felt that the occasion justified her studying several late specimens which she resurrected from the waste-paper basket under her father's desk. These, however, proved rather unsatisfactory models, since none of them seemed to exactly fit the existing emergency. Most of them, indeed, were in cipher. I suppose, said Mabel, nibbling her pen-holder thoughtfully, they make them short so they'll fit these little sheets of yellow paper. But there's lots more space they might use if they didn't leave such wide margins. I'll write small so I can say all I want to, but dear me, I can't think of a thing to say. It took a long time, but the message was finished at last. With a deep sigh of satisfaction Mabel folded it neatly and put it into an envelope, which she carefully sealed. Then, putting on her hat and taking the telegram with her, she ran to Betty's home and opened the door. None of the four girls were required to ring each other's doorbells. There, sure enough, was the letter waiting to be mailed to Mr. Black. Mabel, who had thought to bring a pencil, copied the address in her big vertical handwriting and, without further ado, ran with it to her friend the telegraph operator, whose office was just around the corner. All the distances in the little town were short, and Mabel had frequently been sent to the place, with messages written by her father, so she did not feel the need of asking permission. The clerk opened the envelope. Mabel considered this decidedly rude of him and proceeded to read the message. It took him a long time. Then he looked from Mabel's flushed cheeks and eager eyes to the little collection of nickels and dimes she had placed on the counter. Mabel wondered why the young man chewed the ends of his sandy mustache so vigorously. Perhaps he was amused at something. She looked about the little office to see what it could be that pleased him so greatly. But there seemed to be nothing to excite Murth. She decided that he was either a very cheerful young man, naturally, or else he was feeling joyful because the clerk said it was nearly time for luncheon. It'll be all right, Miss Mabel, said he at last. It's a pretty good fifty-five cents worth, but I guess Mr. Black won't object to that. I hope you'll always come to me when you have messages to send. I won't if you go and read them all, said Mabel, at which her friend looked even more cheerful than he had before. Ten minutes later Mabel, mumbling something about having had an errand to attend to, presented herself at the cottage. Beyond a few meekly received reproaches for Marjory no one said anything about the unexplained absence. Indeed, they were all too busy and too preoccupied to care. The greater grief of losing the cottage having swallowed up all lesser concerns. At a less trying time the girls would have discovered within ten minutes that Mabel was suffering from a suppressed secret. But everything was changed now. Although Mabel fairly bristled with importance and gave out sundry very broad hints, no one paid the slightest attention. Gradually, in the stress of packing, the matter of the telegram faded from Mabel's short memory, for preparing to move proved a more exciting operation and also a harrowing one. Every few moments somebody would say, Our last day. And then the other three would fall to weeping on anything that happened to come handy. Of course the packing had stirred up considerable dust. This mingled with tears added much to the forlornness of the cottageer's appearance when they went home at noon with their news. The parents and Auntie Jane said it was a shame, but all agreed there was nothing to be done. All were sorry to have the girls deprived of the cottage, for the mothers had certainly founded a relief to have their little daughters leisure hours so safely and happily occupied. Mabel's mother was especially sorry. Never was moving more melancholy nor house more forlorn when the moving, done after dark with great caution, and mostly through the dining-room window on the side of the house farthest from the Milligan's, was finally accomplished. The Tucker boys had been only too delighted to help. By bedtime the cottage was empty of everything but the curtains on the Milligan's side of the house. An hour later the tired girls were asleep, but under each pillow there was a handkerchief rolled in a tight, grimy little ball and soaked with tears. In the morning the girls returned for a last look and for the remaining curtains. Dandelion cottage, stripped of its furniture and without its pictures, showed its age and all its infirmities. Great patches of plaster and wallpaper were missing, for the gay posters had covered a multitude of defects. The indignant Tucker boys had disobeyed Betty and had removed not only the tin they had put on the leaking roof but the steps they had built at the back door, the drain they had found it necessary to place under the kitchen sink and the bricks with which they had propped the tottering chimneys. Before the day was over the tenants whom the Milligan's had found for their own house were clamoring to move in, so the Milligan's took possession of the cottage late that afternoon, getting the key from Mr. Downing into whose keeping the girls had silently delivered it that morning. To do with Mr. Downing justice nothing had ever hurt him quite as much as did the dignified silence of the three pale girls who waited for a moment in the doorway, while equally pallid Jean went quietly forward to lay the key on his desk. He realized suddenly that not one of them could have spoken a word without bursting into tears, and for the rest of that day he hated himself most heartily. CHAPTER 17 of Dandelion Cottage by Carol Watson-Rinkin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Several surprises take effect. Mr. Black opened the door of his hotel apartment in Washington one sultry afternoon in response to a vigorous prolonged rapping from without. The bell-boy handed him a telegram. When Mr. Black had read the long message he smiled and frowned, but cheerfully paid the three dollars and forty one cents additional charges that the messenger demanded. It was Mabel's message. The clerk had transmitted it faithfully, even to the two misspelled words that had proved too much for the excited little writer. If the receiving clerk had not considerably tucked in a few periods for the sake of clearness, there would have been no punctuation marks, because, as everybody knows, very few telegrams are punctuated. But Mabel, of course, had not taken that into consideration. It was quite the longest message and certainly the most amusing one that Mr. Black had received. It read, Dear Mr. Black, we are well but terribly unhappy for the worst has happened. Can't you come to the rescue, as they say in books? For we are really in great trouble, because the Milligans, a very unpolite and untruthful family next door, want dandelion cottage for themselves, the pigs, and Mr. Downing says we must move out at once and return the key, our own darling key, that you gave us. We are moving out now and crying so hard we can hardly write. I mean myself. Is Mr. Downing the boss of the whole church? Can't you tell him we truly paid the rent for all summer by digging dandelions? He does not believe us. We are too sad to write any more, with love from your little friends, Jean, Marjorie, Betty, and I. PS. How about your dinner party if we lose the cottage? Mr. Black read and reread the type written yellow sheet a great many times. Sometimes he frowned, sometimes he chuckled. The post-script seemed to please him particularly, for whenever he reached that point his deep-set eyes twinkled merrily. Presently he'd propped the dispatch against the wall at the back of his table, and sat down in front of it to write a reply. He wrote several messages, some long, some short, then he tore them all up. They seemed inadequate compared with Mabel's. That man Downing, said he, dropping the scraps into the wastebasket, means well, but he muddles every pie he puts his finger in. Probably if I wire him he'll botch things worse than ever. Dear me, it is too bad for those nice children to lose any part of their precious stay in that cottage now, for of course they'll have to give it up when cold weather comes. If I can wind my business up to-day there isn't any good reason why I can't go straight through without stopping in Chicago. It's time I was home anyway. It's pretty warm here for a man that likes a cold climate. Meanwhile things were happening in Mr. Black's own town. It was a dark threatening day when the Milligans delighted the success of their efforts to dislodge its rightful tenants, hurriedly moved into dandelion cottage. But, dark though it was, Mrs. Milligan soon began to find her new possession full of unsuspected blemishes. Now that the pictures were down and the rugs were up, she discovered the badly broken plaster, the tattered condition of the wallpaper, the leaking drain, and the clumsily mended rat holes. She found, too, that she had made a grievous mistake in her calculations. She had supposed that the tiny pantry was a third bedroom, with its neat muslin curtains it certainly looked like one when viewed from the outside, and crafty Laura, intensely desirous of seeing the enemy ousted from the cottage at any price, had not considered it necessary to enlighten her mother. My goodness! exclaimed Mrs. Milligan, a thin woman with a shrewish countenance, now much streaked with dust. I thought you said there was a fine cellar under this house. It's barely three feet deep, and there's no stairs and no floor. It's full of old rubbish. I never was down there, admitted Laura, dropping a dishpan full of cooking utensils with a crash, and hastily making for safe quarters behind a mountain of Milligan furniture. But I've often seen the trap door. It hasn't been open for years, and where's the nice big closet you said opened off the bedroom? There isn't a decent closet in this house. I don't see what possessed you. It serves you right, said Mr. Milligan unsympathetically. You wouldn't wait for anything but had to rush right in. I told you you'd better take your time about it, but no. You know very well, James Milligan, snapped the irate lady, that the naps wouldn't have taken our house if they couldn't have had it at once. Well, I don't know, growled Mr. Milligan, scowling crossly at the constantly growing heaps of incongruously mixed household goods. Where in Sam Hill you're going to put all that stuff? There isn't room for a cat to turn around, and the place isn't fit to live in, anyway. Baddest things looked, even Mr. Milligan did not guess that first busy day how hopelessly out of repair the cottage really was, but he was soon to find out. The summer had been an unusually dry one, so dry that the girls had been obliged to carry many pales of water to their garden every evening. The moving day had been cloudy, out of sympathy perhaps for the little cottagers. That night it rained, the first long, steady downpour in weeks. This proved no gentle shower but a fierce robust, pelting flood. Seemingly a discriminating rain, too, choosing carefully between the just and the unjust. For most of it fell upon the Milligans, with a sole exception of the dining room, every room in the house leaked like a sieve. The tired disgusted Milligans, drenched in their beds, leaped hastily from their shower baths to look about, by candlelight for shelter. Mr. Milligan spread a mattress, driest side up, on the dining room floor, and the unfortunate family spent the rest of the night huddled in an uncomfortable heap in the one dry spot the house afforded. Very early the next morning they sent post-haste for Mr. Downing. Mr. Downing, who hated to be disturbed before eight, arrived at ten o'clock, and with an expert carpenter made a thorough examination of the house which the rain had certainly not improved. It will take three hundred, possibly four hundred dollars, said the carpenter, who had been making a great many figures in a worn little notebook, to make this place habitable, it needs a new roof, new chimneys, new floors, a new foundation, new plumbing, new plaster, in short just about everything except the four outside walls. Then there are no lights and no heating plant, which of course would be extra. It's probably one of the oldest houses in town. What's it renting for? Ten dollars a month. It isn't worth it. Half that money would be a high price. Even if it were placed in good repair it would be six years at least before you could expect to get the money expended on repairs back in rent. The only thing to do is to tear it down and build a larger and more modern house that will bring a better rent, for there's no money in a ten dollar house and a lot of this size. The taxes eat all the profits. Well, said Mr. Downing, this house certainly looked far more comfortable when I saw it the other day than it does now. Those children must have had the defects very well concealed. They deceived me completely. They deceived us all, said Mrs. Milligan resentfully. Half of our furniture is ruined. Look at that sofa. Mr. Downing looked. The drenched old gold plush sofa certainly looked very much like a half-drowned jersey-calf. Of course, continued Mrs. Milligan sharply. We expect to have our losses made good. Then we've had all our trouble for nothing too. Of course we can't stay here. The place isn't fit for pigs. I suppose the best thing we can do is to move right back into our own house. Yes, said Mr. Milligan, overlooking the fact that Mrs. Milligan had inadvertently called her family pigs. It certainly looks like the best thing to do. I'll go tell the Naps that they'll have to move out at once. We can't spend another night under this roof. The Naps, however, proved disobliging and flatly declined to move a second time. The Milligans had begged them to take the house off their hands and they had signed a contract. Moreover, it was just the kind of house the Naps had longed and looking for. And now that they were moved, more than half settled and altogether satisfied with their part of the bargain, they politely but firmly announced their intention of staying where they were until the lease should expire. There was nothing the former tenants could do about it. They were homeless and quite as helpless as the four little girls had been in similar circumstances, and they made a far greater fuss about it. By this they gained, however, nothing but the disapproval of everybody concerned. So finally the Milligans disgusted with Dandelion Cottage, with Mr. Downing, and for once even a little bit with themselves, dejectedly hunted up a new house in a far less pleasant neighborhood, and moved hurriedly out of Dandelion Cottage. And, except for the memories they left behind them, out of the story. After eighteen, a hurried retreat. The girls, of course, had been barred out while all these exciting latest events were taking place in their dear cottage. But Marjorie, who lived next door to it, had seen something of the Milligan's hasty exit, and had guessed it part of the truth. Mrs. Krain, who seemed a pleasant likable little woman in spite of her unwillingness to accommodate her new landlord, unknowingly confirmed their suspicions when she told her friend Mrs. Krain about it. For Mrs. Krain, in her turn, told the news to the four little housekeepers the next morning as they sat homeless in forlorn on her doorstep. It was always Mrs. Krain to whom the Dandelion Cottagers turned whenever they were in need of consolation, and, as in this case, consolation was usually forthcoming. The girls, in their excitement at hearing the news about their late possession, did not notice that sympathetic Mrs. Krain looked tired and worried as she sat in the big red rocking chair on her porch, peeling potatoes. Oh! squealed Mabel from the broad arms of Mrs. Krain's chair. I'm glad! I'm glad! I'm glad! I can't help being a little bit glad, too, said fair-minded Jean. I suppose it wasn't very pleasant for the Milligan's, but I guess they deserved all they got. They deserved a great deal more, said Marjorie resentfully. Think of these last awful days. If they'd had much more, said Mrs. Krain, they'd have been drowned, why, children, the place was just flooded. I am ashamed to tell of it, said Betty, but I'm awfully afraid that our boys took off part of the pieces of tin they had nailed on the roof last spring. I heard them doing something up there the night we moved, but Bob only grinned when I asked him about it. Good for the boys, cried Marjorie gleefully. I wouldn't be un-lady like enough to set traps for the Milligan's myself, but I can't help feeling glad that somebody else did. It was Bob's own tin, giggled, delighted Mabel, almost tumbling into Mrs. Krain's potato pan in her joy. I guess he had a right to take it home if he wanted to. Anyway, said Jean from her perch on the porch railing, I'm glad they're gone. But it doesn't do us any good, sighed Betty, and the summer's just flying. Yes, it does, insisted Jean. We can stand having the cottage empty. We can pretend, you know, that it's an enchanted castle that can be opened only by a certain magic key that— Somebody's baby has swallowed, shrieked Mabel, the matter of fact. Mercy no goosey, said Marjorie. She means the magic word that nobody can remember. That's it, said Jean. Of course we couldn't do even that with the cottage full of Milligan's. No, assented Marjorie, the most active imagination would refuse to activate. To what, gasped Mabel? To work, explained Marjorie. I should say so, agreed Mabel, again threatening the potatoes. It was just as much as I could do to come over here this morning to breathe the same air with that cottage with those folks in it staring me in the face. But now, after all, sighed Betty, sorrowfully from the other arm of Mrs. Crane's big chair. Having the Milligan's out of the cottage doesn't make much difference, as long as we're out too. Oh, I did love that little house so. I just hated to think of cold weather coming to drive us out, but I never dreamed of anything so dreadful as having to leave it right in this lovely warm weather. If Mr. Black had stayed in town, said Mabel feelingly, we'd be dusting that darling cottage this very minute. Mrs. Crane sniffed in the odd way she always did whenever Mr. Black's name was mentioned. This scornful sniff, accompanying Mrs. Crane's evident disapproval of their dearest friend, was the only thing that the girls disliked about Mrs. Crane. I know you'd like Mr. Black if you only knew him, said Betty earnestly. In some ways you're a good deal like him. You're both the same color, your eyebrows turn up the same way at the outside corners, and you both like us. Mr. Black has a beautiful soul. Indeed, said Mrs. Crane, and haven't I a beautiful soul too? Why, of course, said Betty, leaning down to rub her cheek against Mrs. Crane's. I meant both of you. We like you both just the same. Only it's different, explained Jean. Mr. Black doesn't need us, and sometimes you do. We like to do things for you. I'm glad of that, said Mrs. Crane, for I need you this very minute. But don't you be too sure about his not needing you as well. He must lead a pretty lonely life, because it's years since his wife died. I never heard of anybody else liking her, but I guess he did. He's one of the faithful kind, maybe, for he's lived all alone in that great big house ever since. I guess it does him good to have you little girls for friends. What was his wife like? asked Mabel eagerly. Did you used to know her? No, indeed, said Mrs. Crane, again giving the objectionable sniff. That is, not so very well. A little light-headed useless thing, no more fit to keep house. But there, there, it doesn't make any difference now. And I've learned that it isn't the best housekeepers that get married easiest. If it was, I wouldn't be so worried now. Is anything the matter? asked Jean, quick to note the distress in Mrs. Crane's voice. Yes, return the good woman, there are two things that matter. Your poor foot, queried Betty, instantly all sympathy. No, the foot's all right. It's Mr. Barlow in my eyes. Mr. Barlow is going to be married to a young lady he's been writing to for a long time, and I'm going to lose him because he wants to keep house. It won't be easy to find another lodger for that little shabby old-fashioned room. I'm trying to make a new reg carpet for it, but I'm all at a stand still because I can't see to thread my needle. I declare I don't know what is going to become of me. When I grow up, said Betty, you shall live with me. But what am I to do while I'm waiting for you to grow up? asked Mrs. Crane, smiling at Betty's protecting manner. Let us be your eyes, suggested Jean. Couldn't we thread about a million needles for you? Don't you think a million would last all day? I should think it might, said Mrs. Crane, somewhat comforted. I haven't quite a million, but if Marjorie will get my cushion and a spool of cotton, I'll be very glad to have you thread all I have. The girls worked in silence for fully five minutes. Then Mabel jabbed the solitary needle she had threaded into the sawdust cushion and said, Don't you suppose Mr. Downing might let us have the cottage now if we went to him? Nobody else seems to care about it. What do you think, Mrs. Crane? Why, my dear, I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to ask. You'd better see what your own people think about it. Let's go ask them now, cried impetuous Mabel, springing to her feet, forgetting all about the needles, and without waiting to say goodbye to Mrs. Crane, the eager girl made a diagonal rush for the corner nearest her own house. The others remained long enough to thread all the needles. Then they too went home with the news about the cottage and about Mrs. Crane. They were realizing for the first time that their good friend might become helpless long before they were ready to use her as a grandmother for their children. But they couldn't see just what was to be done about it. The idea of going to Mr. Downing, however, soon drove every other thought away, for the parents and Auntie Jane too advised them to ask. They even encouraged them. But when Jean and Betty, hopefully dressed in their Sunday best, and Marjorie and Mabel, with their abundant locks elaborately curled besides, presented themselves in their request at Mr. Downing's house that evening, they were not at all encouraged by their reception. Mr. Downing, a man of moods, had just come off second best in an encounter with Mrs. Milligan, whom he had accidentally met on his way home to dinner. And at the moment the girls appeared, the cottage was just about the last subject that the badgered man cared to discuss. Before Jean had fairly stated her errand, they enraged Mr. Downing roared, No! So emphatically that his four alarmed visitors backed hurriedly off the Downing porch and fled as one girl. Mabel, to be sure, measured her length in the canabed near the gate, but she scrambled up, snorting with fright and indignation, and none of them paused again in their flight until Jean's door, which seemed safest, had closed behind them.