searched all over the garden,
thinking maybe the child was hiding from him and might jump out any
moment from behind a tree.

He was beginning to feel alarmed when he saw two little bare feet
slowly waving back and forth above the tall orchard grass. He slipped
over the fence and noiselessly along under the apple-trees. Robin was
lying on his stomach watching something on the ground so intently that
sometimes the bare feet forgot to wave over his back and were held up
motionless.

With one hand he was pulling along at a snail's pace a green leaf, on
which a dead bumble-bee lay in state. With the other he was keeping in
order a funeral procession of caterpillars. It was a motley crowd of
mourners that the energetic forefinger urged along the line of march.
He had evidently collected them from many quarters,--little green
worms that spun down from the apple boughs overhead; big furry brown
caterpillars that had hurried along the honeysuckle trellis to escape
his fat fingers; spotted ones and striped ones; horned and smooth.
They all straggled along, each one travelling his own gait, each one
bent on going a different direction, but all kept in line by that
short determined forefinger.

Steven laughed so suddenly that the little master of ceremonies jumped
up and turned a startled face towards him. Then he saw that there were
traces of tears on the dimpled face and one eye was swollen nearly
shut.

"O Robin! what is it now?" he cried in distress. "How did you hurt
yourself so dreadfully?"

"Ole bumble!" answered Robin, pointing to the leaf. "He flied in ze
kitchen an' sat down in ze apple peelin's. I jus' poked him, nen he
flied up and bit me. He's dead now," he added triumphantly. "Gramma
killed him. See all ze cattow-pillows walkin' in ze p'cession?"

So the days slipped by in the old farmhouse. Frost nipped the gardens,
and summer vanished entirely from orchard and field. The happy
outdoor life was at an end, and Robin was like a caged squirrel.
Steven had his hands full keeping him amused and out of the way.

"Well, my lad, isn't it about time for you to be starting to school?"
Mr. Dearborn would ask occasionally. "You know I agreed to send you
every winter, and I must live up to my promises."

But Steven made first one pretext and then another for delay. He knew
he could not take Robin with him. He knew, too, how restless and
troublesome the child would become if left at home all day.

So he could not help