es all at once. Wisht I wasn't so dizzy.
Wisht--

What Chester's third wish was will never be known, for just as he
reached the kitchen door the worst dizzy spell of all came on. Trees,
barns, well-sweep, all whirled around him with the speed of wind. He
reeled and fell, a limp, helpless little body, on Miss Salome
Whitney's broad, spotless sandstone doorstep.

* * * * *

In the Mount Hope kitchen Miss Salome was at that moment deep in
discussion with her "help" over the weighty question of how the
damsons were to be preserved. Miss Salome wanted them boiled;
Clemantiny Bosworth, the help, insisted that they ought to be baked.
Clemantiny was always very positive. She had "bossed" Miss Salome for
years, and both knew that in the end the damsons would be baked, but
the argument had to be carried out for dignity's sake.

"They're so sour when they're baked," protested Miss Salome.

"Well, you don't want damsons sweet, do you?" retorted Clemantiny
scornfully. "That's the beauty of damsons--their tartness. And they
keep ever so much better baked, Salome--you know they do. My
grandmother _always_ baked hers, and they would keep for three years."

Miss Salome knew that when Clemantiny dragged her grandmother into the
question, it was time to surrender. Beyond that, dignity degenerated
into stubbornness. It would be useless to say that she did not want to
keep her damsons for three years, and that she was content to eat them
up and trust to Providence for the next year's supply.

"Well, well, bake them then," she said placidly. "I don't suppose it
makes much difference one way or another. Only, I insist--what was
that noise, Clemantiny? It sounded like something falling against the
porch door."

"It's that worthless dog of Martin's, I suppose," said Clemantiny,
grasping a broom handle with a grimness that boded ill for the dog.
"Mussing up my clean doorstep with his dirty paws again. I'll fix
him!"

Clemantiny swept out through the porch and jerked open the door. There
was a moment's silence. Then Miss Salome heard her say, "For the
land's sake! Salome Whitney, come here."

What Miss Salome saw when she hurried out was a white-faced boy
stretched on the doorstep at Clemantiny's feet.

"Is he dead?" she gasped.

"Dead? No," sniffed Clemantiny. "He's fainted, that's what he is.
Where on earth did he come from? He ain't a Hopedale boy."

"He must be carried right in," exclaimed Miss