k rosettes look from down here on the sweet,
smelly ground!

"Let me see what would go with rosetting. AIDING AND ABETTING, PETTING,
HEN-SETTING, FRETTING,--there's nothing very nice, but I can make
fretting' do.

Cheered by Rowena's petting,
The flowers are rosetting,
But Aunt Miranda's fretting
Doth somewhat cloud the day."

Suddenly the sound of wagon wheels broke the silence and then a voice
called out--a voice that could not wait until the feet that belonged to
it reached the spot: "Miss Saw-YER! Father's got to drive over to North
Riverboro on an errand, and please can Rebecca go, too, as it's Saturday
morning and vacation besides?"

Rebecca sprang out from under the syringa bush, eyes flashing with
delight as only Rebecca's eyes COULD flash, her face one luminous circle
of joyous anticipation. She clapped her grubby hands, and dancing up
and down, cried: "May I, Aunt Miranda--can I, Aunt Jane--can I, Aunt
Miranda-Jane? I'm more than half through the bed."

"If you finish your weeding tonight before sundown I s'pose you can go,
so long as Mr. Perkins has been good enough to ask you," responded Miss
Sawyer reluctantly. "Take off that gingham apron and wash your hands
clean at the pump. You ain't be'n out o' bed but two hours an' your head
looks as rough as if you'd slep' in it. That comes from layin' on the
ground same as a caterpillar. Smooth your hair down with your hands an'
p'r'aps Emma Jane can braid it as you go along the road. Run up and get
your second-best hair ribbon out o' your upper drawer and put on
your shade hat. No, you can't wear your coral chain--jewelry ain't
appropriate in the morning. How long do you cal'late to be gone, Emma
Jane?"

"I don't know. Father's just been sent for to see about a sick woman
over to North Riverboro. She's got to go to the poor farm."

This fragment of news speedily brought Miss Sawyer, and her sister Jane
as well, to the door, which commanded a view of Mr. Perkins and his
wagon. Mr. Perkins, the father of Rebecca's bosom friend, was primarily
a blacksmith, and secondarily a selectman and an overseer of the poor, a
man therefore possessed of wide and varied information.

"Who is it that's sick?" inquired Miranda.

"A woman over to North Riverboro."

"What's the trouble?"

"Can't say."

"Stranger?'

"Yes, and no; she's that wild daughter of old Nate Perry that used to
live up towards Moderation. You remember she ran away to work in