way, as she peered down.

George Washington looked like a good-sized muskrat, as they saw him
clinging to the wet, mossy stones, meowing pitifully. He was either too
frightened or too cold to make any effort to climb up. Perhaps he could
not have done so anyway. Cricket lowered the bucket again herself, till
it struck the water. The splash seemed to frighten George Washington
only the more, for his cries were redoubled.

"What a _stupid_ cat!" cried Hilda. "Why doesn't he take hold and come
up?"

"He's frightened to death down there in the cold. He's _never_ stupid,
are you, George W.? I'm _so_ afraid he'll die of getting wet and cold
before we can save him!" cried Cricket, anxiously, flopping the bucket
about. "Do take hold of it, George! dear George, do!"

But Cricket's most coaxing tones availed nothing. George only meowed and
meowed in accents that grew more pitiful every minute.

"Do run and tell Marm Plunkett that the kitten's in the well, Hilda,"
said Cricket, at last. "Perhaps she'll know something to do. Look out,
children! don't lean over so far, else the first thing you know you'll
be down there, too. Oh, George Washington, please take hold!"

Hilda ran off, and came back a moment later with rather a scared face.

"I told her, Cricket, and what do you think she said? That we must be
sure not to let it die there, 'cause it would poison the water! She
seemed dreadfully frightened about it, and tried to get up, but of
course she couldn't, and then she said--she said--she'd _pray_ for us."
Hilda's voice sank to an awed whisper. Cricket looked blank.

Billy caught up the word eagerly.

"Yes, yes, children, that's right o' Marm Plunkett. It's allers good to
pray," and down went simple old Billy on his knees. "You keep on
a-danglin' that ere bucket, and I'll pray fur ye, young uns. That'll
fetch him." He clasped his hands and shut his earnest eyes.

The children stood in awed silence. Billy, swaying back and forth in his
eagerness, began in a high-keyed voice, sounding unlike his ordinary
tones:

"'How dothe the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour;
And gather honey all the day
From every fragrant flower'--Amen."

Poor old Billy! this scrap of a rhyme, learned in his far-away boyhood,
was the one bit that had stuck in his clouded mind all these years, and
had served this pious soul for a prayer ever since. Every night,
kneeling reverently by his bedside, he had said it,