ng and pale with excitement. She did not in
the least know what was going to happen, but she was sure that the flag,
when in the enemy's country, must be at least a little safer with the
State of Maine sitting on top of it!

Mr. Simpson began a long monologue about Acreville, the house he lived
in, the pond in front of it, Mrs. Simpson's health, and various items of
news about the children, varied by reports of his personal misfortunes.
He put no questions, and asked no replies, so this gave the
inexperienced soldier a few seconds to plan a campaign. There were
three houses to pass; the Browns' at the corner, the Millikens', and the
Robinsons' on the brow of the hill. If Mr. Robinson were in the front
yard she might tell Mr. Simpson she wanted to call there and ask Mr.
Robinson to hold the horse's head while she got out of the wagon.
Then she might fly to the back before Mr. Simpson could realize the
situation, and dragging out the precious bundle, sit on it hard, while
Mr. Robinson settled the matter of ownership with Mr. Simpson.

This was feasible, but it meant a quarrel between the two men, who held
an ancient grudge against each other, and Mr. Simpson was a valiant
fighter as the various sheriffs who had attempted to arrest him could
cordially testify. It also meant that everybody in the village would
hear of the incident and poor Clara Belle be branded again as the child
of a thief.

Another idea danced into her excited brain; such a clever one she could
hardly believe it hers. She might call Mr. Robinson to the wagon, and
when he came close to the wheels she might say, "all of a sudden":
"Please take the flag out of the back of the wagon, Mr. Robinson. We
have brought it here for you to keep overnight." Mr. Simpson might be
so surprised that he would give up his prize rather than be suspected of
stealing.

But as they neared the Robinsons' house there was not a sign of life
to be seen; so the last plan, ingenious though it was, was perforce
abandoned.

The road now lay between thick pine woods with no dwelling in sight.
It was growing dusk and Rebecca was driving along the lonely way with a
person who was generally called Slippery Simpson.

Not a thought of fear crossed her mind, save the fear of bungling in
her diplomacy, and so losing the flag. She knew Mr. Simpson well, and a
pleasanter man was seldom to be met. She recalled an afternoon when he
came home and surprised the whole school playing the Revol