it was Fanny,” Peggy hastened to add, hoping that the credit of the family might be restored.

“It isn’t Fanny either. You could guess and guess and you’d never guess it. It’s such an unusual name.”

Peggy was full of interest. She guessed several uncommon names, but they were all of them wrong.

“What letter does it begin with?” she asked finally.

“It begins with a D.”

“Dorothy?”

“No, that’s a very common name. I know lots of Dorothys.”

“Doris?”

“That isn’t uncommon, either. I know two Dorises.”

“Dora?”

“That isn’t uncommon, either. I know some Doras.”

Peggy was amazed at the size of the acquaintance of this boy who had come from the city, and she was very envious. She wished she knew all those Dorothys and Dorises and Doras. She wanted to hear all about each one of them. But he did not want to take the trouble to tell her about them.

“Guess again,” he said.

“I can’t think of any more girls’ names beginning with a D, except Dorcas, in the Bible.”

“It isn’t Dorcas.”

“Delia?”

“No.”

“You’ll have to tell me; I can’t think of another thing.”

“Her name is Diana.”

“Diana! What a pretty name! Is she pretty?”

“She’s all right,” the boy said heartily; “only she isn’t very strong; and she has to stay in bed a lot when she is sick, and the cat amused her. She came and would get on the bed and would curl down by her.”

“She would? Mother would never let her go into our bedrooms.”

Peggy was beginning to see why Lady Jane liked to live with the Carters. But she had a pang of jealousy when she thought of that adorable gray striped pussy, with her soft fur and her greenish eyes, curling down contentedly and giving her cheerful purr while she was stroked by another little girl.

“Is she the only sister you’ve got?” Peggy asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you only one brother?”

“That’s all. He’s older than me. He’s some brother,” he added proudly. “He writes poetry.”

“Poetry? I write it too,” said Peggy; “only mine is just nursery rhymes to amuse Alice, about bees and hens and things.”

“Tom is writing a poem about you.”

“About me?” Peggy was deeply interested. “Can you say any of it?”

Christopher became very red and looked confused. “I can’t remember it,” he said.

“You must remember some of it.”

She persisted until she wrung from him the confession that he could remember one line, and she teased and teased him to repeat it until he said, “All right, if you must hear it, I suppose you must: ‘Peggy, Peggy, long and leggy.’ It gets nicer as it goes on, but that’s all I can remember.”

Peggy looked down at her long legs thoughtfully. The poem was a distinct shock. She had never had one written to her before.

“If he’s like most boys I guess he’s longer and leggier than I am,” she said.

“You are right there, he is.”

“I’m glad I have long legs,” said Peggy. “They are so useful when you are climbing trees.”

Christopher looked at her with new interest. “Do you like to climb trees?” he asked.

“I just love to,” said Peggy.

They were coming to the stone wall that enclosed the Thornton place. Peggy climbed up and began to walk across it. At one end was a pine tree, with convenient branches that she had often longed to climb. It looked very tall and symmetrical with its spreading green branches against the heavenly blue of the sky.

She could never quite remember whether it was she or Christopher who first suggested climbing the tree. But they hid their baskets on the other side of the wall, and presently she and Christopher were climbing quickly from branch to branch. Peggy had never had a more blissful time. She had often envied Lady Jane her power to scramble up trees with no mother at hand to tell her to come down, or to warn her against spoiling her frock. But now she envied nobody. It was too wonderful to be sitting in the topmost branches of that pine tree. But the thought of Lady Jane’s furry garment made her look down at her less substantial frock, and, to her dismay, she saw a long streak on it. She put her hand down and it felt sticky.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “I’ve got some of the pitch from the pine all over my dress! Oh, dear, what will mother say? She told me to be sure not to stop on the way, and not to talk to any strange children.”

“I’m not a strange child,” said Christopher. “She wouldn’t mind your talking to me.”

“Yes, but I have stopped on the way. I’ll have to hurry,” she said. “But, oh, dear, I’m afraid my dress is spoiled! Oh, what will mother say? I’ve only worn it one other time, and she’s only got one more of these blue frocks finished.”

“Only one more! How many are you going to have?”

“Four,” said Peggy. She glanced up at him, and he looked as if he, too, would be hard on his clothes and would have some sympathy for her, so she added: “You see, it doesn’t tear easily. The man in the shop said it was as strong as nails. I am always spoiling my things.”

He looked down at the long smear with genuine concern. “If I hadn’t come along it wouldn’t have happened,” he said. “I’ll take you round to Aunt Betsy’s. She’s got stuff that takes out all kinds of spots. She’s got them out for me.”

“Is your Aunt Betsy the same as Clara’s Aunt Betsy?” Peggy asked.

“My Aunt Betsy is father’s aunt,” he said. “That’s the reason we came here to live. She told us your house was going to be sold and there wasn’t any good doctor here any more.”

They turned down a side street. “That’s the house she lives in,” he said, pointing to a small white cottage with green blinds.

“Oh, yes, I know her,” said Peggy. “She’s Miss Betsy Porter.”

Aunt Betsy was in her pleasant kitchen taking something with a delicious, spicy smell out of the oven. She came to the door and asked the children to come in. She was tall and thin, with gray hair and dark eyes. Peggy thought of her as an old lady, but much more interesting than old ladies usually were. There always seemed to be something very nice in the way of food at her house, no matter at what time one arrived.

“Now you children must each have a piece of my gingerbread,” she said. “I’ve just taken it out of the oven.”

Miss Betsy Porter was deeply interested in the stain on Peggy’s frock.

“That’s a very enticing tree to climb,” she said, when the children had told her the whole story. “I climbed it once when I was a little girl.”

Peggy looked with wonder into the kindly face of Aunt Betsy, with its many lines. It seemed so impossible to think that she had ever been a little girl climbing trees.

“I’ve got some stuff here that will take that out,” said Aunt Betsy, going to a cupboard in the other room. “It would be a great pity for you to spoil that pretty dress.”

There was a jet-black cat curled up on the red bricks of the kitchen hearth. After the spots had been taken out, Peggy went over to make friends with the cat. It did not seem polite to eat and run when Miss Betsy had been so kind about taking the stain out of her dress, so Peggy stayed to make a call, after the gingerbread had been eaten. And she and Christopher told her all about Lady Jane Grey, and how she lived first at one house and then at the other. Finally, the striking of a clock made Peggy realize that the morning was slipping