r as many
more. It hung resplendent now, like a triumphal banner, the conqueror
of yet one more campaign. It was a remarkable quilt, to be sure, and
no wonder all competitors faded before it. It was composed entirely of
small pieces of silk and velvet, sewed together in that style known as
crazy patchwork. Nevertheless, there was nothing haphazard about their
arrangement. The colors were put together so as to represent a
landscape. A large round sun, of pumpkin-colored silk, with rays of
red satin flying from it, arose from behind a mountain of green velvet.
The sky was of blue silk, with white plush clouds, and in the
foreground bloomed a flower garden of such various colors that the eye
grew dazzled in contemplation.

"Here's your Minjekahwun, doctor," whispered Malcolm, grasping
Gilbert's arm. "Ain't they lurid? Oh, crickey! they've got first
prize! You're in for it! You'll look like the prize quilt when you
get inside 'em."

The future owner of the mittens surveyed them in some dismay. They
were long and roomy, even for his brawny hands, and of many and vivid
colors. He looked around appealingly. Elsie Cameron's face was grave,
but her eyes were laughing, while little Miss Scott was in a fit of
merriment.

"Cheer up," cried Malcolm encouragingly. "They're the very thing to
catch the public. You've got the purple and the orange, and that'll
suit Spectacle John's crowd; and the green'll appeal to the Catholics
over on the flats; and the whole thing looks like Highland tartan.
Why, there isn't a nationality in Oro that'll be able to resist you
when you wear them."

They emerged from the crowded building into the brilliant light of
outdoors, and Gilbert had just helped his companion down the steep,
rickety steps, when a new sound arose above the babel of the fair, and
quenched for a moment even the scream of the bagpipes. It came from
the highway, a hoarse "honk, honk," strange, and yet, to Gilbert,
familiar. An astonished stillness fell over the group around the gate.
The whole show, in fact, stood wide-eyed and agape with wonder, for
what should be coming up the road, moving entirely of its own accord,
without horse or other visible means of locomotion, but a huge red
double buggy, with wheels like a stone-crusher, and the appearance of a
threshing-machine! It paused at the gate, and a clear, gay voice
called, "Good-afternoon, Dr. Allen!"

With a hasty word of apology, only half uttered, Gilbe