e
spoiled, and the heel of one of them had been nearly wrenched off when
she stumbled over the stone. Her India muslin, with its sash, and
ribbons, and streamers, was torn in places and bedraggled with mud. She
had lost her hat in the woods, and the wind and the rain had held high
carnival in her loosely-arranged hair, whose color Tom so detested, and
which streamed down her back in many little wet tags, giving her the
look of a drowned rat after it has been tortured in a trap.

Old Peterkin was reading his evening paper when Tom's sharp summons
sounded through the house, making him jump from the chair, as he
exclaimed:

'Jiminy hoe-cakes! Who can that be in this storm?'

He had seen Billy off in the train, and had returned home just as the
rain began to fall. Naturally both he and his wife had felt some
anxiety on Ann Eliza's account, but had concluded that if the storm
continued she would remain at Grassy Spring, and if it cleared in time
they would send the carriage for her. So neither thought of her when the
loud ring came, startling them both so much. It was Peterkin himself who
went to the door, gorgeous in a crimson satin dressing gown which came
to his feet, but which no amount of pulling would make meet together
over his ponderous stomach. An oriental smoking cap was on his head, the
big tassel hanging almost in his eyes, and a half-burned cigar between
his fingers.

'Good George of Uxbridge!' he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon Tom, from
whose soaked hat the water was dripping, and upon Ann Eliza leaning
against him, her pale face quivering with pain, and her eyes full of
tears. 'George of Uxbridge! What's up? What ails the girl!'

At sight of her father Ann Eliza began to cry, while Tom said:

'She has sprained her ankle and I had to bring her home. She cannot
step.'

'Jerusalem hoe-cakes! Spraint her ankle! Can't step! You bring her home!
Heavens and earth! Here, May Jane, come lively! Here's a nice how-dy-do!
Ann Liza's broke her laig, and Tom Tracy's brung her home!'

As Peterkin talked, he was taking his daughter in his arms and bringing
her into the hall, hitting her lame foot against the door, and eliciting
from her a cry of pain.

'Oh, father; Oh-h!--it does hurt so. Put me somewhere quick, and take
off my boot. I believe I am going to die!'

She was dripping wet, and little puddles of water trailed along the
carpet as Peterkin carried her into the sitting room, where he was about
to lay he