too. We live just a little way out o'
town--anybody can tell you where the Hammett Twins live," said this
full-blown "Blossom." "Yes. My sister an' I are twins. And we're fond of
young folks and like to have 'em 'round us. There! Ginger's all right,
Pussy. We can drive on."

"You'd oughter fix them rails, Cross Moore," repeated the lean sister,
as the old pony started placidly up the hill again.

Mr. Moore languidly squinted along the staggering barrier. "Wa-al--I
reckon I will--one o' these days," he said.

He grinned in a friendly way at Janice as she started on. "Them Hammett
gals is reg'lar fuss-bugets," he observed. "But they're nice folks. So
you're Broxton Day's gal? I heard you'd arove. How do you like
Poketown?"

"I don't know it well enough to say yet, Mr. Moore," returned Janice,
bashfully, as she went down the hill.

There were no more houses, but great, sweeping-limbed willow trees
shaded the lower range of the hill. She came out, quite suddenly, upon a
little open lawn which edged the lake itself. Here an old dock stuck
its ugly length out into the water--a dock the timbers of which were
blackened as though by a fire, and the floor-boards of which had mostly
been removed. There was but a narrow path out to the end of the wharf.

Between the wharf and the opposite side of this little bay was a piece
of perfectly smooth water; the softly breathing wind did not ruffle the
bay at all. The long arm of the shore that was thrust out into the lake
was heavily wooded. Rows of dark, almost black, northern spruce stood
shouldering each other on that farther shore, making a perfect wall of
verdure. Their deep shadow was already beginning to creep across the
water toward the old wharf.

"What a quiet spot!" exclaimed Janice, aloud.

"'Iet spot!'" breathed the echo from the opposite shore.

"Why! it's an echo!" cried the startled Janice.

"'An echo!'" repeated the sprite, in instant imitation of her tone.

It was then that Janice saw the little girl upon the old wharf. At first
she seemed just a blotch of color upon the old burned timbers. Then the
startled visitor realized that the gaily-hued frock, and sash, and
bonnet, garbed a little girl of perhaps eight or nine years.

Janice could not see her face. When she rose up from where she had been
sitting and went along the shaking stringpiece of the dock, her back
was still toward the shore.

Yet her gait--the groping of one hand before her--all the uncer