the cottage, but
the nimble Priscilla was ahead of her, and when Amy came panting to the
back doorstep, met her with the startling news, "This is locked, too. Do
you suppose she's gone away?"

"I don't know where she'd go unless it was to borrow something of Mrs.
Snooks," Amy though puzzled was not really anxious, as she was only too
familiar with Aunt Abigail's eccentric possibilities. "We'll knock as
hard as we can," she suggested. "Maybe she lay down to take a nap and
overslept."

A vigorous tattoo began forthwith on the back door, to be reinforced
presently by the ringing of the front door bell. Had Aunt Abigail been a
rival of the celebrated Seven Sleepers the combined tumult would have
been pretty sure to arouse her. Priscilla and Amy at length desisted,
and returning to the front of the house, met the other girls coming to
the rear. By this time every face was anxious.

"There's just a chance that the woodshed door is open," said Peggy.
"Though she's locked everything up so carefully that I don't think it's
likely." A moment's investigation showed that this door, too, was firmly
bolted, and Peggy returned to the sober girls grouped under the
dining-room window. "She must have gone somewhere," Peggy said. "Do you
suppose she could have got tired of staying here all day by herself, and
tried to find us in the pasture and lost her way?"

The suggestion struck a little chill through the listeners. The locked
house, the setting sun, the mystery of Aunt Abigail's disappearance had
all combined to dissipate their previous cheerfulness. In addition to
their anxiety about Aunt Abigail, certain unformulated doubts regarding
their chances for supper and bed, weighed upon their spirits.

"Look!" cried Amy suddenly. "Look!" and pointed a directing finger
upward. The shutter of one of the bedroom windows was conducting itself
very strangely, now opening a trifle, and then slamming to as if it had
suddenly changed its mind. But presently it opened sufficiently wide to
give the watchers below a glimpse of snowy hair, arranged in a rather
elaborate combination of coils and puffs.

"Aunt Abigail!" Amy shrieked, "oh, Aunt Abigail!" Her cry was echoed by
the voices of the others, Dorothy's treble sounding clearly above the
rest. The shutter opened again, and an unmistakable Aunt Abigail looked
down.

"Who's there?"

"Why, it's us!" Grammatical accuracy ceases to be important when people
are tired and hungry, and, if the t