he spread out her two firm little hands. "My fingers aren't greasy!"
she cried indignantly; "that's pear juice on them."

Peter Junior's gravity turned to laughter. "Well, I don't want pear
juice on my strings. Wait, you rogue, I'm going to kiss you again."

"No, you're not, you old hobble-de-hoy. You can't catch me." When she
was halfway down the stairs, she called back, "The man's waiting."

"Coward! Coward!" he called after her, "to run away from a poor old
cripple and then call him names." He thrust the letter into his
pocket, and seizing his crutch began deliberately and carefully to
descend the stairs, with grave, set face, not unlike his father's.

"Catch, Peter Junior," called Betty from the top of the pear tree as
he passed down the garden path, and tossed him a pear which he caught,
then another and another. "There! No, don't eat them now. Put them in
your desk, and next month they'll be just as sweet!"

"Will they? Just like you? I'll be even with you yet--when I catch
you."

"You'll get pear juice on your strings. There are lots of nice girls
in the village for you to kiss. They'll do just as well as me."

"Good girl. Good grammar. Good-by." He waved his hand toward Betty,
and turned to the waiting servant. "You go on and tell the Elder I'm
coming right along," he said, and hopped off down the road. It was
only lately he had begun to take long walks or hops like this, with
but one crutch, but he was growing frantic to be fairly on his two
feet again. The doctor had told him he never would be, but he set his
square chin, and decided that the doctor was wrong. More than ever
to-day, with the new touch of little pear-stained fingers on his
heart, he wanted to walk off like other men.

Now he tried to use his lame leg as much as possible. If only he might
throw away the crutch and walk with a cane, it would be something
gained. With one hand in his pocket he crushed his father's letter
into a small wad, then tossed it in the air and caught it awhile, then
put it back in his pocket and hobbled on.

The atmosphere had the smoky appearance of the fall, and the sweet
haze of Indian summer lay over the landscape, the horizon only faintly
outlined through it. Peter Junior sniffed the air. He wondered if the
forests in the north were afire. Golden maple leaves danced along on
the path before him, whirled hither and thither by the light breeze,
and the wild asters and goldenrod powdered his dark trousers with