"O, it's only a rain-storm," said Moppet, appearing on the scene with
his empty dipper. "I got tired of sleeping. I dreamed about three
giants. I didn't like it. I wanted something to do. It's only _my_
rain-storm, and you needn't mind it, you know."

Dripping Sharley's poor little temper, never of the strongest, quivered
to its foundations. She took hold of Moppet without any observation, and
shook him just about as hard as she could shake. When she came to her
senses her mother was coming in at the gate, and Halcombe Dike was gone.

* * * * *

"I s'pose I've got to 'tend to that hollering to-night," said Moppet,
with a gentle sigh.

This was at a quarter past seven. Nate and Methuselah were in bed. The
baby was asleep. Moppet had thrown his shoes into the water-pitcher but
twice, and run down stairs in his nightgown only four times that
evening; and Sharley felt encouraged. Perhaps, after all, he would be
still by half past seven; and by half past seven--If Halcombe Dike did
not come to-night, something was the matter. Sharley decided this with a
sharp little nod.

She had devoted herself to Moppet with politic punctiliousness. Would he
lie at his lazy length, with his feet on her clean petticoat, while she
bent and puzzled over his knotted shoestrings? Very well. Did he signify
a desire to pull her hair down and tickle her till she gasped? She was
at his service. Should he insist upon being lulled to slumber by the
recounted adventures of Old Mother Hubbard, Red Riding-Hood, and Tommy
Tucker? Not those exactly, it being thought proper to keep him in a
theologic mood of mind till after sundown, but he should have David and
Goliath and Moses in the bulrushes with pleasure; then Moses and Goliath
and David again; after that, David and Goliath and Moses, by way of
variety. She conducted every Scriptural dog and horse of her
acquaintance entirely round the globe in a series of somewhat apocryphal
adventures. She ransacked her memory for biblical boys, but these met
with small favor. "Pooh! _they_ weren't any good! They couldn't play
stick-knife and pitch-in. Besides, they all died. Besides, they weren't
any great shakes. Jack the Giant-Killer was worth a dozen of 'em, sir!
Now tell it all over again, or else I won't say my prayers till next
winter!"

After some delicate plotting, Sharley manoeuvred him through "Now I lay
me," and tucked him up, and undertook a little Sunday-night cate