t have lost 'em," she exclaimed, after a vain
search through her work-basket. The clothes were lying on the bed where
she had put them. As she gathered them in her arms the thimble rolled
out, and a spool of thread with a needle sticking in it fell to the
floor.

[Illustration: George came out and locked the door]

She shook out Ivy's little blue dress, and began turning it around to
find the seam that was ripped. It was drawn together with queer
straggling stitches that only the most awkward of fingers could have
made. The white buttons on Bud's shirt-waist had been sewed on with
black thread, and a spot of blood told where somebody's thumb had felt
the sharp thrust of a needle. John Jay's trousers lay at the bottom of
the pile, with a little round, puckered patch of calico on each knee.

The tears came into Mammy's eyes as she saw the boy's poor attempt to
help. "I'se afeerd he's goin' to die," she muttered in alarm. "I
sut'n'ly is. Poah little fellow: he's mighty tryin' to a body's patience
sometimes, an' he's made a mess of this mendin', for suah, but I reckon
he means all right. He's not so onthinkin' an' onthankful aftah all."
She laid the spool and thimble on the window-sill, and folded her hands
to rest awhile. There was a tremulous smile on her careworn old face.
For one day, at least, John Jay had paid his toll.

CHAPTER VIII.

Boys do not grow into saints in a single night, in the way that Jack's
beanstalk grew from earth to sky. Sainthood comes slowly, like the
blossom on a century plant; there must be a hundred years of thorny
stem-life first.

Mammy soon lost all her fears of John Jay's dying. Although the promise
made to George on the haymow was faithfully kept, he could no more avoid
getting into mischief than a weathercock can keep from turning when the
wind blows.

The October frosts came, sweetening the persimmons and ripening the nuts
in the hazel copse; but it nipped the children's bare feet, and made the
thinly clad little shoulders shiver. John Jay gladly shuffled into the
old clothes sent over from Rosehaven. They were many sizes too big, but
he turned back the coat sleeves and hitched up his suspenders,
regardless of appearances. Bud fared better, for the suit that fell to
his lot was but slightly worn, and almost fitted him. As for Ivy, she
was decked out in such finery that the boys scarcely dared to touch her.
She had been given a long blue velvet cloak that the youngest Haven