sharply, but under her
breath, to Agnes: "I don't see what your objection is to going to Mr.
Buckham's house. I think he is a real nice old man."

"Oh, I know he is," wailed her sister. "But you never stole his
berries!"

"Aggie's conscience is troubling her," chuckled Neale O'Neil. "But don't
you fret, Aggie. Old Bob Buckham won't know that _you_ were one of the
raiders last May."

"Of course he will. When he knows my name. Didn't he send my name to Mr.
Marks with the others?"

"Did he?" returned Neale. "I wonder!"

CHAPTER X

SOMETHING ABOUT OLD TIMES

By the time Tess and Dot Kenway arrived at the rambling old farmhouse at
Ipswitch Curve, where Mr. Buckham lived, they were as chatty and chummy
with the man who had shot the eagle as though he were a life-long
friend.

Without any doubt Mr. Bob Buckham loved children--little girls
especially. And Mrs. Bob Buckham loved them, too.

There was a big-armed, broad-shouldered country girl in the wide, clean
kitchen into which the children were first ushered. She was the
maid-of-all-work, and she welcomed Tess and Dot kindly, if she did scold
Mr. Buckham for tracking up her recently scrubbed floor with his muddy
boots.

"Now, you jest hesh, Posy," he told her, good-naturedly. "You know you
wouldn't have work enough to keep you interested, if 'twarn't for me.
Where's marm?"

"In the sittin' room, Mr. Buckham--and don't you darst to go in there
without scrapin' your feet. And _do_ put that nasty, great bird down
outside."

"Don't darst to," said Mr. Buckham. "The dogs'll tear it to pieces. I
wanter fix this Tom Jonah's ear. He's a brave dog, Posy. If it hadn't
been for him, I swow! Lycurgus Billet's Sue would have been kerried off
by this old eagle," and he told the wondering girl about the adventure.

"Now, you take these little gals in to marm, while I fix up Tom Jonah,"
Mr. Buckham urged.

So Tess and Dot were ushered into the sitting room by the big girl,
Posy. Mrs. Buckham was not likely to be found anywhere but in her chair,
poor woman, as the children very soon learned. She was a gentle,
gray-haired, becapped old lady who never left her chair, saving for her
bed at night. She was a paralytic and could not walk at all; but her
fingers were busy, and she was fairly surrounded by bright colored
worsteds and wools, finished pieces of knitting and crocheting, and
incompleted work of like character.

Out of this hedge of bright-hued fancy-work, Mr