molehill," said Ruth,
quietly. "If you don't like Beatrice Severn, you need not associate with
her--not even if she is going to be in your grade at school. But I would
not quarrel with my best friend about her. That's hardly worth while, is
it?"

"I don't know whether I consider Eva Larry my best friend, or not," said
Agnes, reflectively. "Myra Stetson is lots nicer in some ways."

That was Agnes' way. She was forever having a "crush" on some girl or
other, getting suddenly over it, and seeking another affinity with
bewildering fickleness. Eva Larry had been proclaimed her dearest friend
for a longer term than most who had preceded her.

There was too much to do in completing the housecleaning task to spend
either breath, or time, in discussing Beatrice Severn and her impudent
tongue. A steady "rap, rap, rapping" from the back lawn told the story
of Neale and the parlor rugs.

"There!" cried Ruth, suddenly, from the top of the stepladder, where she
was wiping the upper shelves in the dining-room china closet. "There's
one rug in the sitting room I didn't take out last evening. Will you get
it, Aggie, and give it to Neale?"

Willing Agnes started at once. She literally ran to the sitting-room and
banged open the door.

All this time we have left Dot--and her sore tooth--behind this very
door! She had selected the wrong side of the door upon which to crouch,
waiting for Fate--in the person of an unknowing sister--to pull the
tooth.

The door opened inward, and against the slumbering little girl on the
hassock. Instead of jerking the tooth out by pulling open the door,
Agnes banged the door right against the unconscious Dot--and so hard
that Dot and her hassock were flung some yards out upon the floor. Her
forehead was bumped and a great welt raised upon it.

The smallest Kenway voiced her surprise and anguish in no uncertain
terms. Everybody in the house came running to the rescue. Even Aunt
Sarah came to the top of the stairs and wanted to know "if that young
one was killed?"

"No-o-o!" sobbed Dot, answering for herself. "No--no-o-o, Aunt Sarah.
_Not yet._"

But Mrs. MacCall had brought the arnica bottle and the bruise was soon
treated. While they were all comforting her, in staggered Neale with a
number of rugs on his shoulder.

"Hello!" he demanded. "Who's murdered this time?"

"Me," proclaimed Dot, with confidence.

"Oh-ho! Are you making all that noise about losing a little old tooth?
But you got i