frightened us dreadfully. We knew aunt Persis steamed Zed, for
he said so; and what if she should steam us all out of the world with
jugs of hot water close to our noses? And she was always trying to
make Fel swallow something bad, and always talking about her white
face. "Tell your mother to let me have you for a month," said she,
"and I'll put roses into your cheeks, my dear."

Fel was so afraid that she trembled when we went into the house,
expecting auntie would spring out upon her, and set her over the fire
to steam. But she was such a patient, still little thing that she
never complained, even to her own mother, and I was too rattle-brained
to think much about it, though if I myself had expected to be cooked,
the whole town would have heard of it.

Zed grew paler and paler. I asked Miss Rubie, privately, "what made
his mother boil him?" And she smiled, though not as if she was happy,
and said,--

"She doesn't boil him when I can help it, dear."

About this time I heard my mother say to my father she wished uncle
John was at home, for auntie acted so odd, and her eyes looked so
strange.

"Yes, mamma," cried I, rushing in from the nursery, "she boils her
little boy, and she wants to boil Fel. I should think you'd tell Fel's
mother, for Fel dassent tell, she's so scared."

I think mother went right to Madam Allen with what I said, for the
next night, when I was at Squire Allen's, and Fel was sitting in her
mamma's lap, Madam Allen said,--

"Why didn't my little girl let me know she was afraid of Mrs. Adams?
When darling feels unhappy about anything she must always tell
mamma."

Fel was so glad somebody was going to protect her, that she threw her
arms about her mother's neck, and sobbed for joy. "Don't let her hurt
Zed either," said she. She was such a dear little soul, always
thinking about others.

"Now tell me if that boy has got a name?" spoke up grandpa Harrington.
That was what he always asked when any one spoke of Zed.

"Yes, sir; his name is Rosalvin Colvazart," said Madam Allen. "Zed is
for short."

"I know, I know, Rose Albert Coffeepot," laughed grandpa. He had said
that fifty times, but he always thought it a new joke.

That night, while we were all soundly asleep, we were suddenly
roused by the sharp ringing of the door-bell. Squire Allen went to the
door, and there, on the steps, stood our dear teacher, Martha Rubie,
in her night dress, with a shawl over her shoulders.

"O, Mr. Allen!