e of you and only one of me, and be as neighborly
as you can."

Theodora mounted the fence. At the top, she paused and looked back.

"I will come," she said. "I'll get round Hope in some way or other.
Good-by till to-morrow." She nodded brightly, and jumped down out of
sight, on the other side of the fence.

CHAPTER THREE

It was the first of September, and the sunshine lay yellow on the
fields. Phebe McAlister and her chief friend and crony, Isabel St. John,
sat side by side on a rough board fence, not far from the McAlister
grounds, feasting upon turnips. The turnips were unripe and raw, and
nothing but an innate spirit of perversity could have induced the girls
to eat them. Moreover, each had an abundant supply of exactly similar
vegetables in her own home garden, yet they had wandered away, to prey
upon the turnip patch of Mr. Elnathan Rogers.

"Good, aren't they?" Phebe asked, as the corky, hard root cracked under
her jaws.

"Fine." Isabel rolled her morsel under her tongue; then, when Phebe's
attention was distracted, she furtively threw it down back of the fence.
"I believe I like 'em better this way than I do cooked." This addition
was strictly true, for Isabel never touched turnips at home.

"I want another." Phebe jumped down and helped herself to two more
turnips, carefully choosing the largest and best, and ruthlessly
sacrificing a half-dozen more in the process. "Here, Isabel, take your
pick."

Isabel held out her hand, hesitated, then, with a radiant smile of
generosity, ostentatiously helped herself to the smaller. But Phebe held
firmly to its bunch of green leaves.

"No, take the other, Isabel," she urged.

"I'd rather leave it for you."

"But I want you to have it."

"And I want you to take it."

"I've got ever so many more at home."

"So've I."

Reluctantly Phebe yielded her hold, and Isabel took the smaller one and
rubbed the earth away, before biting it.

"It's not fair for me to take it, Phebe," she observed; "when you were
the one to get it."

Phebe giggled.

"Just s'pose Mr. Rogers should catch us here, Isabel St. John! What
would you do?"

"I'd run," Isabel returned tersely.

"I wouldn't; I'd tell him."

Isabel stared at her friend in admiration.

"Tell him what?"

"Oh--things," Phebe answered, with sudden vagueness. "My papa and mamma
are coming home this afternoon."

"Your stepmother," Isabel corrected.

"Well, what's the difference?"

"Lots."

"W