causes of lots of other things, and Mr.
Wentworth found that now his words were listened to with more
eagerness; and before he knew it, he was almost as excited as were the
children themselves.

They were really a very intelligent lot of youngsters, he told himself,
and the prospect of having two of them for guests did not look so
formidable after all.

From the barn they went to the garden, from the garden to the pond,
from the pond back to the yard; then they all sat down under the apple
trees while Mr. Wentworth built them a miniature boat; in days long
gone by James Wentworth had loved the sea, and boat-making had been one
of his boyhood joys.

At four o'clock Mrs. Wentworth called from the house:

"James, will you come here a minute, please?"

A slow red stole over the man's face as he rose to his feet. The red
was a deep crimson by the time he faced his wife.

"How are you going to send them home, dear?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"But it's four o'clock, and we ought to be thinking of it. Which two
are you going to keep?"

"I--I don't know," he acknowledged.

For some unapparent reason Mrs. Wentworth's spirits rose, but she
assumed an air of severity.

"Why, James!--have n't you told them?" she demanded.

"Mary, I couldn't; I've been trying to all the afternoon. Er--you tell
them--do!" he urged desperately. "I can't--playing with them as I
have!"

"Suppose we keep them all, then?" she hazarded.

"Mary!"

"Oh, I can manage it! I 've been talking with Hannah--I saw how things
were going with you "--his features relaxed into a shame-faced
smile--"and Hannah says her sister can come to help, and we 've got
beds enough with the cots in the attic."

He drew a deep breath.

"Then we won't have to tell them!" he exclaimed.

"No, we won't have to tell them," she laughed, as she turned back into
the house.

What a fortnight that was at "Meadowbrook!" The mornings--no longer
peaceful--were full of rollicking games; and the long, drowsy
afternoons became very much awake with gleeful shouts. The spotless
order fled before the bats and balls and books and dolls that Mr.
Wentworth brought home from the store; and the methodical routine of
the household was shattered to atoms by daily picnics and frequent
luncheons of bread and butter.

No longer were the days ordered with a precision that admitted of no
frivolous deviations, for who could tell in the morning how many bumped
heads, cut fin