a fair salary." And here Mr. Morton named a sum that
seemed so large to poor Jerry that his eyes nearly popped out of his
head.

"Ah, I never could be worth all that, sir! But what a great thing it
would be for Peggy!" And visions of unburnt coal in large lumps and real
feather pillows and other luxuries for his suffering wife passed through
his mind.

"I am sure you can fill the position admirably, and the salary is not
half so large as you deserve. Come along and we will apply without loss
of time."

Applying was a mere form, as Mr. Morton's recommendation was enough. The
new janitor was engaged, and promised to enter upon his duties as soon
as the convent could find a man to take his place.

Before this happened, Jefferson Square experienced a complete upsetting.
All the children were summoned to meet in Mrs. Morton's long
drawing-room, and came trooping to see what was wanted: the Earlys, the
Rickersons, the Bakers, the Longs, the Adamses, the Morton children
themselves, and, last of all, Mrs. Outcast with Mimy and the six other
little Outcasts trailing behind. You may be sure none of them were late.

The curiosity of the children was roused to its highest pitch. They
couldn't imagine what kind of a party it was going to be with chairs in
rows like church. And when they were all seated Mrs. Morton looked so
serious, that Addy Gravvy whispered to his neighbour, "I know--it's a
funeral."

Then Mrs. Morton made them a long speech. She told a story of a worthy
old man working from morning till night to provide the barest
necessities for his sick wife; she told of that wife's patience, of her
cruel accident and suffering, of her devotion to her husband; she
repeated the story of the way both of them had risked their lives to
save the property of neighbours who barely knew of their existence. Then
she drew a picture of twenty-one thoughtless little imps, jibing and
jeering the hardworking man who was worth all the rest of the square put
together--fathers and mothers included--and by the time she reached this
point all twenty-one of the imps, and seven others who were not imps,
were boohooing and bellowing in a way that was a caution.

"What are we going to do about it, children?" asked Mrs. Morton.

Each was for making amends in some way, and all blubbered out at once,
but one--I think it was Henry Clay--cried louder than the rest:

"Le's go over, and tell 'em how sorry we are, and how we'll never make
fun of