und here the night the sawmill
burned down!"

"Why, they were college gowns and caps," said Sarah; "Don Neil and
Allan Fraser are both going to get them."

"Well, don't I know that, you young upstart. An' Mrs. Fraser's in an
awful way about Allan wearin' one, too, but that don't prove that they
didn't look jist like the mischief itself."

"Dear me, do they wear them kind o' things out amongst other folks?"
inquired Mrs. Hamilton in mild alarm. She had supposed that such
raiment would be confined to the seclusion of one's own bed chamber.

"Indeed, they jist do, Mrs. Hamilton. If Jessie an' Don Neil makes up
this little lovers' quarrel they've got up lately, you'll have him
comin' flappin' down the hill to see her in one o' them next winter.
But reelly, you wouldn't believe what awful trollops they were; an' if
I couldn't turn out a stylisher lookin' wrapper an' a mighty better
fit, too, I'd go an' choke myself."

"You'll choke before you get this story told, if you don't quit
talkin'," said the plain-spoken Maggie. "Did the minister have a
wrapper on?"

But Miss Cotton had a fine eye to the structure of a story. "Oh, I'm
comin' to him, at the right time. Well, as I was sayin', there was a
whole swarm o' these fellows came floppin' an' flounderin' onto the
platform an' they all squat down in a long row with their wrappers an'
shingles on, an' started to play like all possessed on what they call
bangjoes or some such tomfoolery."

"Banjoes," corrected Sarah. "Lots of the boys and girls play them at
the High School."

The orator paid no attention.

"An' they set there fiddle-dee-deein' for about a quarter of an
hour,--an' now I'm comin' to the important part. There was one tall,
good-lookin' chap, sittin' right in the middle o' the row----"

"Mr. Egerton," whispered Maggie.

"An' he was scratchin' away for dear life on some sort of a fryin'-pan
thing, an' I leans over to James an' I sez, 'James,' sez I, 'ain't it
for all the world like gratin' nutmegs?' sez I. Well, we were bang-up
in the very front seat, for James Turner always believes in gettin' all
he pays for, an' the fellows was makin' the awfullest clatter, an' you
know, James Turner's as deaf as a post, anyhow, an'--well, now, if any
o' you scalawags lets this out I'll massacree the whole lot o' you!"

A chorus of renewed promises and entreaties to continue followed this
terrible threat.

"Well, jist as I was sayin' it, good and loud, what