Mrs. Merryweather; and both
parents hurried down to the wharf, toward which two dejected little
figures were now tugging a very heavy boat.

"What's the matter, Will?" said Mr. Merryweather. "Speak up, son."

"We--spilt the milk!" said Willy, in a carefully measured tone.

"Oh, my dears! all of it?" inquired their mother.

"Every drop!" said Willy, grimly.

"Oh, Mammy, we are so sorry!" cried Kitty. "The old can--just--upset!
and we are so wet, and it keeps splashing all over my legs!"

"There! there! come ashore; never mind about the milk!" said Mr.
Merryweather.

"Never mind!" echoed Mrs. Merryweather, heartily. "My poor chicks, where
have you been all this time? Why didn't you come straight home?"

"We were--afraid!" sobbed Kitty. "We have been rowing around for ever
and ever so long, and we are so tired, and hungry, and--wet--"

But by this time Kitty was near enough for her father to bend down and
lift her bodily out of the boat, and put her, all dripping milk as she
was, into her mother's arms. On her mother's shoulder she sobbed out the
rest of the pitiful little story. Kitty was twelve, and not specially
small of her age; but she was the baby, and Mrs. Merryweather sat down
on the wharf and rocked to and fro, hushing her.

"There! there!" she said, soothingly. "My lamb! as if all the milk in
the world were worth your crying about! and crying into the spilt milk,
too, and making the boat all the wetter! Hush! hush! Run along, Papa and
Willy--dear little boy, it really is only funny, so don't fret, not one
little scrap. Kitty and I will come in about two minutes."

CHAPTER VI.

A DISCUSSION

THE morning reading was over, but the girls lingered in the pine parlor,
where the whole family had been gathered to hear some thrilling chapters
of Parkman. Margaret and Bell had their sewing, Gertrude her
drawing-board; Peggy was carving the handle of a walking-stick, while
Kitty struggled with some refractory knitting-needles.

It was a pleasant place in which they were sitting: a little clear space
of pine-needles, embroidered here and there with tiny ferns, and shut in
by walls of dusky pine, soft and fragrant. The tree-trunks made
excellent (though sometimes rather sticky) chair-backs; the sunshine
filtered in through the branches overhead, making a golden half-light
which was the very essence of restfulness.

"Oh, pleasant place!" said Margaret, breaking the silence that had
followed the depart