Part 35 (1/2)

”Yes, one caught in the very act. Question is, getting it up.”

”Will, is that you?” called a forlorn voice from the depths. ”Do, for goodness sake, get me out of this hole.”

Archie instantly poked his head through the opening, and looked down at her.

”Cricket, by jingo! How's the weather down there?”

”Don't tease now, Arch,” begged Cricket. ”Get me up, for I'm nearly dead down here.”

”Why don't you knock away some of the boards from the part.i.tion down-stairs?” asked Will. ”It wouldn't take a moment. Where's the axe, Luke?”

”Will, you're the Lady from Philadelphia,” exclaimed his mother. ”Of course we can.”

And in ten minutes more Cricket was a free individual again, and quite ready to attack their belated dinner.

CHAPTER XXI.

BILLY'S PRAYER.

A little procession trailed slowly across the orchard, towards the cottage of the poor old woman in whom grandma was so much interested.

The procession consisted of Hilda and Cricket, the latter walking very sedately along, because she had in charge a dish of something good to eat for the old woman; then the twins, with their arms tight around each other's necks, as usual; then old Billy, shambling along, his gaunt figure a little bent forward, and his hands clasped behind his back, under his coat tails, as he generally walked. Last of all came George W., stepping daintily along, his tail arching high over his back, his head c.o.c.ked a little on one side, like a dog's, and his ears briskly erect.

George was not an invited member of the party, but from his favorite perch, the roof of the well-house--for George W. was always of an aspiring mind--having seen the party set out, he immediately scrambled down and trotted after. It was some time before he was discovered; not, indeed, till an apple, tumbling down from a branch of a tree, chanced to hit the very tip of his little gray nose. Thereupon he uttered a surprised ”me-ow,” with an accent that belonged to George W. alone.

”There's that cat, coming along, too,” observed Hilda, ”isn't he a little tag-tail?”

”See how pretty Martha looks waving over his back like an ostrich feather!” said Cricket, in reply, making a dive for her pet with her one free hand, and nearly meeting with an accident, for George W. preferred walking on his own four legs just then, and darted past her.

”There! you nearly lost your blanc-mange off the dis.h.!.+” cried Hilda, rescuing it. ”I knew I'd better carry it!”

”It's all right,” said Cricket, hastily straightening it. ”I'll carry it. We go this way now,” as they turned out of the orchard into a lane.

Grandma's poor woman, ”Marm Plunkett,” as the whole neighbourhood called her, was a forlorn old creature, nearly crippled with rheumatism, who lived in a tiny cottage in the fields, half a mile from anybody. She had a daughter who had to go to work nearly every day to earn money to support them both, so the old mother was alone most of the time. She had worked a good deal for Mrs. Maxwell, when she was strong, and Mrs.

Maxwell did much to make her comfortable now. Edna had often been there, and lately the twins had been over with Eliza, to take things to her, since grandma had been disabled, but it chanced that Cricket had never been over there before.

The poor old soul was delighted to see them coming. The cottage was in such a lonely place that few persons came within sight of the windows.

”You're as welcome as the flowers in May,” quavered the thin old voice, as the children went in. ”I've been a-settin' here just a-pinin' fer some one to come along to visit with me a spell. Take cheers, won't you?

Leastways, take what cheers there be.”

There were only two to take, and one of them was seatless. Hilda dropped into the whole one. Billy sat down on the doorstep. The twins sat upon the board edge of the bottomless chair. Cricket remained standing, with the blanc-mange still in her hand. All of them, shy, as children always are in the presence of poverty and sickness, stared helplessly about.

”We've brought you some blanc-mange, marm--I mean Mrs. Plunkett”--for grandma did not like them to use the village nickname--said Cricket, after a moment, ”and Auntie Jean will be here to-morrow.”

”An' it's a pretty-spoken lady she is,” answered Marm Plunkett. ”But it's Mis' Maxwell that I allers wants ter see most. When'll she git to see me agin?”

Cricket coloured furiously.

”Grandma's lame, now,” she said, speaking up bravely. ”I was wrestling with her, and I threw her, and sprained her ankle. She can't stand on it much yet.”