e of her terrific imagination, human and
a girl, rose suddenly to heights of pity and succor. "They shall never
take you, Johnny Trumbull," said she. "I will save you."

Johnny by this time was utterly forgetful of his high status as champion
(behind her back) of Madame's very select school for select children of
a somewhat select village. He was forgetful of the fact that a champion
never cries. He cried; he blubbered; tears rolled over his dusty cheeks,
making furrows like plowshares of grief. He feared lest he might have
killed his aunt Janet. Women, and not very young women, might presumably
be unable to survive such rough usage as very tough and at the same time
very limber little boys, and he loved his poor aunt Janet. He
grieved because of his aunt, his parents, his uncle, and rather more
particularly because of himself. He was quite sure that the policeman
was coming for him. Logic had no place in his frenzied conclusions. He
did not consider how the tragedy had taken place entirely out of sight
of a house, that Lily Jennings was the only person who had any knowledge
of it. He looked at the masterful, fair-haired little girl like a baby.
"How?" sniffed he.

For answer, Lily pointed to the empty baby-carriage. "Get right in," she
ordered.

Even in this dire extremity Johnny hesitated. "Can't."

"Yes, you can. It is extra large. Aunt Laura's baby was a twin when
he first came; now he's just an ordinary baby, but his carriage is big
enough for two. There's plenty of room. Besides, you're a very small
boy, very small of your age, even if you do knock all the other boys
down and have murdered your aunt. Get in. In a minute they will see
you."

There was in reality no time to lose. Johnny did get in. In spite of the
provisions for twins, there was none too much room.

Lily covered him up with the fluffy pink-and-lace things, and scowled.
"You hump up awfully," she muttered. Then she reached beneath him and
snatched out the pillow on which he lay, the baby's little bed. She gave
it a swift toss over the fringe of wayside bushes into a field. "Aunt
Laura's nice embroidered pillow," said she. "Make yourself just as flat
as you can, Johnny Trumbull."

Johnny obeyed, but he was obliged to double himself up like a
jack-knife. However, there was no sign of him visible when the two
buggies drew up. There stood a pale and frightened little girl, with a
baby-carriage canopied with rose and lace and heaped up with rosy a