Part 7 (2/2)

Downstairs Miss Liza closed the stairway door that led up to Miss Lunette's room.

”Now you can talk out as loud as you like,” said she, ”and you won't disturb any one. What's the news up at your house, Susan? Have you and Phil found the buried ten cents yet?”

No, Susan had forgotten all about it.

So, as she stepped about putting their dinner on the table, Miss Liza told Phil the story of the buried ten cents.

”You know, Phil,” said she, ”you are living in my house,-the house I was born and brought up in. And one day, when I was a little girl eight years old, my uncle, who had a farm a mile or so away, drove past our house and saw me in the road.

”'Here's ten cents,' said he. 'Five for you and five for Jim.' Jim was my brother. Now I was a selfish little thing,” said Miss Liza, shaking her head, ”and what did I do but dig a hole under the kitchen window and put the ten cents in it. Some day, when Jim was out of the way, I meant to dig it up and spend it all on myself. But do you know, I never have found that money from that day to this. I dug, and Jim dug, and Susan here has dug, and I suppose you will try now. If you find it, be sure you let me know.”

”I will find it,” said Phil, excited. ”I will. You see.”

Miss Liza nodded wisely.

”That is what Susan thought,” she answered. ”Now draw up to the table. I hope you are hungry.” And Miss Liza smiled hospitably round at her guests.

They were hungry. The good dinner disappeared from their plates like magic, but the crowning touch came when the little cakes shaped like fish and leaves and stars appeared upon the table.

”I told Phil about them,” Susan repeated over and over; ”I told him, I told him.”

After dinner, Susan and Phil went into the garden to fill their pails with currants and raspberries. It must be admitted that they picked more raspberries than currants, and that they put almost as many berries into their mouths as into their pails.

They were hard at work when Miss Liza joined them.

”It's half-past three,” said she, shading her eyes with her hands and looking up at the sky. ”And if your Grandmother meant what she said, you ought to start for home. But what I'm thinking of is the weather. It's clear enough overhead, but low down there are black clouds that look like a shower to me. I don't know whether you ought to set out or not.”

The clouds looked very far away to the children, and, now that their pails were almost full, it seemed a pity not to stay a little longer.

But Miss Liza took one more look round at the sky and made up her mind once for all.

”You must go right along,” she decided, ”and hurry, too. I shan't have an easy moment till I think you are safe at home. Here are your hats and slippers. Miss Lunette is napping, now, so I will say good-bye for you.

Hurry right along, children, and don't stop to play by the way.”

And all in a twinkling Susan and Phil found themselves walking down the village street, with Miss Liza at the gate, waving good-bye with one hand and motioning them along with the other.

The sun was s.h.i.+ning as they left the village and turned into the country road that led past home, but there were low mutterings and rumblings and Phil stopped to listen.

”There's a wagon on the bridge,” said he. ”Maybe they will give us a ride.”

”It's thunder,” returned Susan, more weather-wise than he. ”Listen. It's getting dark, too. I wish a wagon would come along.”

But there was no sound of wheels; only rumblings of thunder growing ever louder, the rustle of leaves in the rising wind, and the call of the birds to one another as they hastened to shelter from the coming storm.

”It's blue sky overhead, anyway,” said Susan. ”Let's run.”

”It's raining,” announced Phil, heavily burdened with slippers and pail.

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