arms about
Peggy's neck. And Dorothy chimed in bravely, "An' you can count on me,
Aunt Peggy. But--but what are you going to bury?"

While Peggy was explaining, Claire laid her hand on Priscilla's arm, and
looked tenderly into her eyes.

"We're going for a walk, you know. You promised last evening."

Priscilla looked up in surprise.

"Why, I know I said we'd take a walk. But this will be a walk and a lot
of fun beside."

"But, don't you see," Claire leaned toward her and spoke rapidly, "it
can't take the place of strolling through the woods just with you alone?
There are so many of us girls that I'm simply hungry to have you to
myself. I've just been living on the thought of it ever since you
promised me last night."

"Very well," said Priscilla compressing her lips. She resolved to be
very careful what she said to Claire, if any casual remark could be
construed into a binding promise. With dismay she realized that it was
not yet twenty-four hours since their arrival, and already Claire's
demonstrations of affection were becoming irksome.

If she had cherished the hope that Claire would relent, she was destined
to disappointment. An early dinner was eaten, and the dishes washed with
an alacrity in agreeable contrast to the dilatory methods of the
morning. Then the party divided, Claire and Priscilla going off in the
direction of the woods--Priscilla walking with more than her usual
erectness--while the others took the route to the pastures where the
raspberries grew, Peggy having ascertained their exact location in her
talk with Joe that morning.

The array of tin pails with the berrying party suggested the probability
that the occupants of Dolittle Cottage would eat nothing but raspberries
for a week. Aunt Abigail and Dorothy had insisted on equipping
themselves with the largest size of pail, though it was noticeable that
when they were once in the pasture, most of the berries they gathered
went into their mouths. And in this they were undoubtedly wise, for a
raspberry fresh from the bushes, warmed by the sun, and fragrant as a
rose, with perhaps a blood-red drop of fairy wine in its delicate cup,
is vastly superior to its subdued, civilized self, served in a glass
dish and smothered in sugar.

It was not long before Aunt Abigail and Dorothy were taking their ease
under a tree and placidly eating a few berries which had found a
temporary respite at the bottom of their pails. Ruth picked with
painstaking con