a great silver dollar. "There," said he, "you
can have that to spend when you get well."

Willy pulled his mother's skirt. "Mother," he whispered.

"What say?"

"Can't I pop some corn for him?"

"By-and-by." Mrs. Rose smoothed the Dickey boy's hair; then she bent
down and kissed him again. She had fairly made room for him in her
stanch, narrow New England heart.

A SWEET-GRASS BASKET

Nancy and Flora were going through the garden, stepping between the
squash and tomato vines. Nancy's mother stood in the kitchen door
looking after them.

"Mind you don't hit your clothes on the tomatoes!" she called out.

"No, we won't," they answered back. After they had passed the last bean
pole they walked single file along the foot-path down the hill. The tall
timothy-grass rustled up almost to their waists. Flora went first, with
a light little tilt of her starched skirts. Nancy trudged briskly and
sturdily after. Nancy's old buff calico dress, which had been let down
for her every spring since she was seven years old, and marked its age,
like a tree, by rings of a brighter color where the old tucks had been,
did not look very well beside Flora's pretty new blue cambric. Neither
did Nancy's old Shaker bonnet show to advantage beside Flora's hat,
with its beautiful bows and streamers; but Nancy was not troubled about
that. She cared very little what she wore, so long as she went
somewhere. Flora always had nicer things, but she never minded. Flora
was her cousin; she had come to live with her when her mother died, ten
years before, and her father had considerable money. He lived in the
city.

The two girls were nearly the same age, but Nancy was much the larger;
she looked clumsy and overgrown following slender little Flora. It was
like a dandelion in the wake of a violet. After they had reached the
foot of the hill, they crossed some low meadow-land. It was quite wet,
little dark pools glimmered between the clumps of rank grasses. Some
fine pink orchid flowers were very thick, but they did not stop to pick
any. They were going to see the Indians. Their eyes were fixed upon some
white tents ahead. They had been there once before with Nancy's father,
but the same sensations of curiosity and exhilarating fear were upon
them now.

"Nancy," whispered Flora, fearfully.

"What say?"

"_Is_ that a--tomahawk in that tent door?"

"No; it's a hoe," returned Nancy, peering with anxious eyes.

Several Indian women and