There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it so
fearfully hard to get over the stile by herself. When she stood on the
first step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then you had
to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And when she
did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of despair--then the
feeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still and half in the
tussock grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted up her
voice. "Wait for me!"

"No, don't you wait for her, Kezia!" said Isabel. "She's such a little
silly. She's always making a fuss. Come on!" And she tugged Kezia's
jersey. "You can use my bucket if you come with me," she said kindly.
"It's bigger than yours." But Kezia couldn't leave Lottie all by
herself. She ran back to her. By this time Lottie was very red in the
face and breathing heavily.

"Here, put your other foot over," said Kezia.

"Where?"

Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height.

"Here where my hand is." Kezia patted the place.

"Oh, there do you mean!" Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second foot
over.

"Now--sort of turn round and sit down and slide," said Kezia.

"But there's nothing to sit down on, Kezia," said Lottie.

She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and began
to beam.

"I'm getting better at climbing over stiles, aren't I, Kezia?"

Lottie's was a very hopeful nature.

The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabel's bright red sunbonnet
up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they paused to decide where
to go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen from
behind, standing against the skyline, gesticulating largely with their
spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers.

The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their
lady-help, who sat on a camp-stool and kept order with a whistle that
she wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she directed
operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed
their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down
the girls' necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the
boys' pockets. So Mrs. S. J. and the poor lady-help drew up what she
called a "brogramme" every morning to keep them "abused and out of
bischief." It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything
began with a piercing blast of the lady-help's