ing like an excited hen to her
chickens. "They'll do to keep the dust off your new dresses goin' an'
comin'. An' when you eat your dinners don't get spots on you, an'
don't point at folks as you ride by, an' stare, or they'll know you
come from the country. An' John, you call into Cousin Ad'line Marlow's
an' see how they all be, an' tell her I expect her over certain to
stop awhile before hayin'. It always eases her phthisic to git up here
on the high land, an' I've got a new notion about doin' over her
best-room carpet sence I see her that'll save rippin' one breadth. An'
don't come home all wore out; an', John, don't you go an' buy me no
kickshaws to fetch home. I ain't a child, an' you ain't got no money
to waste. I expect you'll go, like's not, an' buy you some kind of a
foolish boy's hat; do look an' see if it's reasonable good straw, an'
won't splinter all off round the edge. An' you mind, John"--

"Yes, yes, hold on!" cried John impatiently; then he cast a last
affectionate, reassuring look at her face, flushed with the hurry and
responsibility of starting them off in proper shape. "I wish you was
goin' too," he said, smiling. "I do so!" Then the old horse started,
and they went out at the bars, and began the careful long descent of
the hill. The young dog, tethered to the lilac-bush, was frantic with
piteous appeals; the little girls piped their eager good-bys again and
again, and their father turned many times to look back and wave his
hand. As for their mother, she stood alone and watched them out of
sight.

There was one place far out on the high-road where she could catch a
last glimpse of the wagon, and she waited what seemed a very long time
until it appeared and then was lost to sight again behind a low hill.
"They're nothin' but a pack o' child'n together," she said aloud; and
then felt lonelier than she expected. She even stooped and patted the
unresigned little dog as she passed him, going into the house.

The occasion was so much more important than any one had foreseen that
both the little girls were speechless. It seemed at first like going
to church in new clothes, or to a funeral; they hardly knew how to
behave at the beginning of a whole day of pleasure. They made grave
bows at such persons of their acquaintance as happened to be straying
in the road. Once or twice they stopped before a farmhouse, while
their father talked an inconsiderately long time with some one about
the crops and the weat