e had spoken since they had reached the Cook house.
"Give these to the little girl."

It was the chain of gay-colored beads Dot wore around her neck with
the Indian dress, and Mrs. Cook's face wrinkled into a smile of
delight.

"Emma Louise will love 'em," she declared brightly. "I'm much
obliged."

Dot was too shy to say anything, but she blushed and smiled and
inwardly wished that Peter would drive on. Soon they were going down
the mountain again.

"Aunt Polly's at home!" shouted Dot, as they turned into the drive and
she saw a white figure rocking in the porch swing.

Aunt Polly was very glad to see them, and she had not been worried
because Jud had told her where the children had gone. The milking was
done, she said, and everything fed, so if they would get washed and
dressed right away for supper, Linda would put it on the table while
they were upstairs.

"Linda looked as if she'd been crying," said Meg, slipping off the
Indian dress and pulling on a clean white pique. "Her eyes were all
red."

"Maybe she was bad and her mother scolded her," said Dot.

At the supper table Aunt Polly listened to the story of the
afternoon's drive, and heard about Mrs. Cook and the queer little
house, but all the time she seemed to be thinking of something else.
And there was certainly something seriously wrong with Linda. She
scarcely ate any supper, and her eyes were red, as Meg said. Twaddles
was sure she had the toothache. When he went out into the kitchen
after supper he found her crying over the dishes, and she was cross to
him and told him to get out of her kitchen.

"I guess Linda has the measles," reported the astonished Twaddles to
the rest of the family, who were on the front porch.

"Yes, I guess she's sick," remarked Bobby. "She didn't want any cold
chicken."

"Was she bad, Aunt Polly?" questioned Dot "Did her mother punish
her?"

"Well, Linda and I had decided not to bother you with our troubles,"
said Aunt Polly, "but I see we can't hide a thing from your sharp
eyes. I have bad news to tell you. While you were away with Peter this
afternoon, and while Linda and I were in town, a miserable chicken
thief got into the chicken yard and stole ever so many chickens. We
don't know yet how many. And they took nearly every one of Linda's
ducks. She has the ducks for her own, you know, and she uses the money
for her school clothes. So that's why she's crying."

The four little Blossoms sat and stared at Aunt P