But you won their hearts by
your tact and genial manner."

"That's the best way to manage that sort of an uprising," returned Mr.
Maynard. "Of course we are, in a way, responsible for our children's
deeds, and there's a possibility that some of those letters could make
trouble for us. But I think it's all right now. The next thing is to
choke off the children before they go any further. What _do_ you suppose
possessed them to cut up such a trick?"

"What possesses them to get into one sort of mischief after another, as
fast as they can go?"

"Well, this isn't really mischief, is it? They meant well, you know. But
I'll reserve judgment until after I talk with my young hopefuls."

The two men separated at the corner, and Mr. Maynard went directly to
his own home.

He found Mrs. Maynard and the three older children in the living-room,
variously engaged with books or games.

"Well," he said, as he entered the room. "I'd like an immediate
interview with The Village Imps."

Each of the three gave a start of surprise.

"What do you mean, Father?" cried Marjorie.

"Why, if you belong to an Imp Society you must be Imps; aren't you?"

"Who told you about it?" asked Kitty, disappointedly. "It was to be a
secret, until all the town was stirred up."

"The town is pretty well stirred up now, my girl. But I don't want
reports of my children's doings from other people. Tell me all about it,
yourselves."

"We will, Father," said Marjorie, evidently glad of the chance. "You
tell, King; you're president."

Nothing loath, King began the tale. He gave a full account of their
desire to do something that would be a public benefit of some sort. He
told of Dick's suggestion, founded upon Mr. Fulton's remarks about a
Village Improvement Society. He explained that they wrote letters
because they hadn't money enough for any more expensive proceeding, and
he wound up by proudly stating that they had mailed sixteen letters
already, and hoped to send more the following week.

So earnest was the boy in his description of the work, and so honest his
pride in their efforts so far, that Mr. Maynard deeply regretted the
necessity of changing his view of the matter.

"Kingdon," he said, "you're fourteen years old, and I think you're old
enough to know that you ought not to engage in such important affairs
without getting the advice of older people."

"Oh, Father!" cried Marjorie. "Was this wrong, too? Is _everything_
mischief? Can't we