s worse even than babe. Rebecca, do
you think we'd better do as the circular says, and let Elijah or Elisha
try the soap before we begin selling?"

"I can't imagine a babe doing a family wash with ANY soap," answered
Rebecca; "but it must be true or they would never dare to print it, so
don't let's bother. Oh! won't it be the greatest fun, Emma Jane? At
some of the houses--where they can't possibly know me--I shan't be
frightened, and I shall reel off the whole rigmarole, invalid, babe,
and all. Perhaps I shall say even the last sentence, if I can remember
it: 'We sound every chord in the great mac-ro-cosm of satisfaction."

This conversation took place on a Friday afternoon at Emma Jane's
house, where Rebecca, to her unbounded joy, was to stay over Sunday,
her aunts having gone to Portland to the funeral of an old friend.
Saturday being a holiday, they were going to have the old white horse,
drive to North Riverboro three miles away, eat a twelve o'clock dinner
with Emma Jane's cousins, and be back at four o'clock punctually.

When the children asked Mrs. Perkins if they could call at just a few
houses coming and going, and sell a little soap for the Simpsons, she
at first replied decidedly in the negative. She was an indulgent
parent, however, and really had little objection to Emma Jane amusing
herself in this unusual way; it was only for Rebecca, as the niece of
the difficult Miranda Sawyer, that she raised scruples; but when fully
persuaded that the enterprise was a charitable one, she acquiesced.

The girls called at Mr. Watson's store, and arranged for several large
boxes of soap to be charged to Clara Belle Simpson's account. These
were lifted into the back of the wagon, and a happier couple never
drove along the country road than Rebecca and her companion. It was a
glorious Indian summer day, which suggested nothing of Thanksgiving,
near at hand as it was. It was a rustly day, a scarlet and buff, yellow
and carmine, bronze and crimson day. There were still many leaves on
the oaks and maples, making a goodly show of red and brown and gold.
The air was like sparkling cider, and every field had its heaps of
yellow and russet good things to eat, all ready for the barns, the
mills, and the markets. The horse forgot his twenty years, sniffed the
sweet bright air, and trotted like a colt; Nokomis Mountain looked blue
and clear in the distance; Rebecca stood in the wagon, and
apostrophized the landscape with sudden