rendering him helpless was far funnier than Mark Twain himself, and
Elizabeth and Charles Stuart would roll over on the grass in shrieks of
laughter long before they heard what the joke was about.

But such irresponsible conduct could not continue, and when the cool
part of the day had been consumed in the shade, they had to turn out in
the blazing noon-day sun to hunt for strawberries. The three
adventurers would have preferred the shade and Mark Twain, or else a
dash through the woods, but they were true Canadians, born with that
innate idea that he who does not work should not eat. So to work they
went of their own free will. The strawberries were plentiful, and soon
the tin cups, heaped with their luscious loads, were being carried to
the pails beneath the bass-wood bushes. Elizabeth never grew weary
picking strawberries. This was a task infinitely removed from being
shut into a hot kitchen with a dish-towel, while the boys played in the
barnyard. The glory of the day, the sense of freedom from restraint,
the beauty of the rosy clusters, hiding shyly beneath their pretty
leaves, all combined to make work seem play. She picked so furiously
that she was a spur to even Charles Stuart, accustomed as he was to
hard work at his farm-home, and lest they be beaten by a girl the boys
toiled strenuously.

By the time the afternoon sun had begun to wane, the big pails were
filled and shaken down and filled again, the pickers had eaten almost
as much more, and surfeited, hot, and thirsty they found themselves on
the edge of the slash that bordered the woods.

Down the leafy pathway which led towards the school they could see
Sandy McLachlan's log house standing in its little clearing.

"Hurrah over and ask old Sandy for a drink," cried Charles Stuart.
"I'm chokin'."

Elizabeth followed them into the woods, full of delight. It would be
such fun to visit Eppie in the afternoon, just as if they were grown-up
ladies, and she had come to stay to tea.

There was a strange, deserted air about the little place. There was
nobody in the tiny garden, where Eppie's sunflowers and sweet peas
stood blazing in the sunshine. There was even no sign of life about
the little log house. They went up the hard beaten path to the door.
It was open, and they peeped in. Eppie's pink sunbonnet was lying on a
chair and the crumbs of the late dinner were still scattered over the
bare pine table.

"They must be down at the barn," said