"If it were my own pin, I shouldn't care so much; but it is not. It
belongs to Mrs. Perkinpine."

"And you borrowed it? borrowed jewelry? Well done, Lucretia! I would not
have believed it of you. I call that folly and meanness."

"No," said Miss Stackpole, "I shall certainly replace it; I shall have
to, if I don't find it. But I will find it. I'll tell you: that girl
that dusts my room, Hepsy you call her, I'll be bound that she has it.
Not that she would know its value; but she would think it a pretty thing
to wear. Now, Aunt Margaret, don't you really think yourself it looks--"

"Lucretia Stackpole," interrupted grandmother, "if you care to know what
I really think myself, I will tell you. Since you have lost the pin, and
care so much about it, I am sorry. You can well enough afford to replace
it, though. But if you want to make everybody in the neighborhood
dislike and despise you, just accuse Hepsy of taking your trinkets. She
was born and bred here, close by us, and we think we know her. For my
part, I would trust her with gold uncounted. Everybody will think, and I
think too, that it is far more likely you have lost or mislaid it than
that any one here has stolen it."

Miss Stackpole had already opened her lips to reply; but what she would
have said will never be known, for she was interrupted again,--this time
by a terrible noise, as if half the house had fallen, and then piteous
cries. The sounds came from the wood-shed, and thither we all hastened,
fully expecting to find some one buried under a fallen wood-pile. It was
not quite that, but there lay Rhoda, with her foot bent under her,
writhing and moaning in extreme pain.

We were every one assembled there, grandmother, Miss Stackpole, Louise,
and I, and Hepsy, Dorothy, and Will Bright. Dorothy would have lifted
and carried her in, but Rhoda would not allow it. Will Bright did not
wait to be allowed, but took her up at once, more gently and carefully
than one would have thought, and deposited her in her own room. Then, at
grandmother's suggestion, he set off directly on horseback for Dr.
Butterfield, whom fortunately he encountered on the way.

The doctor soon satisfied himself that the extent of the poor girl's
injuries was a bad sprain,--enough, certainly, but less than we had
feared.

It would be weeks before she would be able to walk, and meantime perfect
quiet was strictly enforced. Hepsy volunteered her services as nurse,
and discharged faithful