should be met."

"I will, sir. I'm just as disappointed as I can be, but I suppose
there's no use crying over spilt milk,--I mean spilt raindrops."

"That's good philosophy, my boy. Now, Kitty, what have you to say by way
of cheering us all up?"

"I can't see much fun in a day like this. But I hope we can have the
picnic on the next Ourday."

"That's a brave, cheerful spirit. Now, my sad and disheartened crew,
take your seats at the breakfast table, and listen to your foolishly
optimistic old father."

The children half-heartedly took their places, but seemed to have no
thought of eating breakfast.

"Wowly-wow-wow!" said Mr. Maynard, looking around the table. "_What_ a
set of blue faces! Would it brighten you up any if I should prophesy
that at dinner-time to-night you will all say it has been the best
Ourday we've ever had, and that you're glad it rained?"

"Oh, Father!" said Marjorie, in a tone of wondering reproach, while
Kitty and King looked blankly incredulous, and Mrs. Maynard smiled
mysteriously.

CHAPTER IV

AN OURDAY

It was impossible to resist the infection of Mr. Maynard's gay
good-nature, and by the time breakfast was over, the children were in
their usual merry mood. Though an occasional glance out of the window
brought a shadow to one face or another, it was quickly dispelled by the
laughter and gaiety within.

Marjorie was perhaps the most disappointed of them all, for it was her
day, and she had set her heart on the picnic in the woods. But she tried
to make the best of it, remembering that, after all, father would be at
home all day, and that was a treat of itself.

After breakfast, Mr. Maynard led the way to the living-room, followed by
his half-hopeful brood. They all felt that something would be done to
make up for their lost pleasure, but it didn't seem as if it could be
anything very nice.

Mr. Maynard looked out of the front window in silence for a moment, then
suddenly he turned and faced the children.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said; "do any of you know the story of
Mahomet and the mountain?"

"No, sir," was the answer of every one, and Marjorie's spirits sank. She
liked to hear her father tell stories sometimes, but it was a tame
entertainment to take the place of a picnic, and Mahomet didn't sound
like an interesting subject, anyway.

Mr. Maynard's eyes twinkled.

"This is the story," he began; "sit down while I tell it to you."

With a little sigh Marjorie