r ungracious self, she still answered briskly:

"Very well, suppose I should make such a very rude and unmotherlike
reply, fiddlesticks and nonsense would not shoot you, would they?"

At which sentence Alfred stopped kicking his heels against the door,
and laughed.

"Tell us all about it," continued Ester, following up her advantage.

"Nothing to tell, much, only all the folks are going a sail on the
lake this afternoon, and going to have a picnic in the grove, the very
last one before snow, and I meant to ask mother to let us go, only how
was I going to know that Mrs. Carleton would get sick and come away
down here after her before daylight; and I know she would have let
me go, too; and they're going to take things, a basketful each one of
'em--and they wanted me to bring little bits of pies, such as mother
bakes in little round tins, you know, plum pies, and she would have
made me some, I know; she always does; but now she's gone, and it's
all up, and I shall have to stay at home like I always do, just for
sick folks. It's mean, any how."

Ester smothered a laugh over this curious jumble, and asked a humble
question:

"Is there really nothing that would do for your basket but little bits
of plum pies?"

"No," Alfred explained, earnestly. "Because, you see, they've got
plenty of cake and such stuff; the girls bring that, and they do like
my pies, awfully. I most always take 'em. Mr. Hammond likes them,
too; he's going along to take care of us, and I shouldn't like to go
without the little pies, because they depend upon them."

"Oh," said Ester, "girls go, too, do they?" And she looked for the
first time at the long, sad face of Julia in the corner.

"Yes, and Jule is in just as much trouble as I am, cause they are all
going to wear white dresses, and she's tore hers, and she says she
can't wear it till it's ironed, cause it looks like a rope, and Maggie
says she can't and won't iron it to-day, _so_; and mother was going
to mend it this very morning, and--. Oh, fudge! it's no use talking,
we've got to stay at home, Jule, so now." And the kicking heels
commenced again.

Ester pared her last potato with a half troubled, half amused face.
She was thoroughly tired of baking for that day, and felt like saying
fiddlesticks to the little plum pies; and that white dress was torn
cris-cross and every way, and ironing was always hateful; besides it
_did_ seem strange that when she wanted to do some great, nice thing,