sed for three years,
wasn't it--since I was a little girl of five. That's why we haven't seen
one another, I suppose." Then: "How did you think of coming to the
Indian Drill?"

"Why, one of the school trustees had to see my father on business and he
spoke about the entertainment. I thought I'd like to see it."

"Well, I'm glad you came. Good-bye."

A carriage drew up. The boy and his companion stepped into it and were
driven off.

"That's young Graham Woods Bartlett," said Mrs. Procter as they started
home. "They live in the big house on the top of the hill. This is the
first time it's been open for some years."

"And Drusilla's his grandmother," said Suzanna. "He's an awful nice
boy."

"His father and old John Massey are business associates," put in Mr.
Procter.

"Such a fine big house to be occupied only a few months of the year, and
then not every year," put in Mrs. Procter. "And they rarely stay so late
in the season as they're staying this year--way into October."

"I'll take Maizie and Peter and go and see him tomorrow," said Suzanna.

"Oh, Suzanna, I don't believe--" began Mrs. Procter. Then sensing
immediately that her small daughter would be totally unable to
understand social distinctions, she did not finish her sentence.

So it was that the next afternoon right after school, Suzanna, who never
lost time in carrying out a resolve, prepared for her visit.

"I wonder where Peter is?" Mrs. Procter asked.

As if in answer to his mother's question, Peter opened the kitchen door.
He wore primarily a guilty expression. His hat was on one side of his
head, the suit which two seasons before he had outgrown, was short in
the legs, tight as to chest, and there was a very symphony of entreaty
in his eyes. By a frayed string he held a stray dog, the fourth one
since spring.

Mrs. Procter looked at him sternly. As mothers do, she took in with one
glance Peter's prayerful attitude and the appealing one of the
shrinking animal.

"You take that dog right away and lose it!" she commanded.

"Oh, mother," began the small boy entering the kitchen, the dog perforce
entering also. "He followed me all the way home and we're awful good
friends already. Can't he stay?"

"Not one minute," returned Mrs. Procter. She regarded the animal
scornfully. "He's not anybody's dog," she said. "He's simply a stray,
and I'm tired of feeding every stray dog that comes into the
neighborhood."

Peter turned reluctantly away. "He'