come over in the morning with a larger supply, bringing at the same time the yellow hen who was desirous of assuming the cares of a family. During the discussion of these practical matters, Rosetta Muriel had maintained a disdainful silence. But when Mrs. Cole went to pack a basket, the daughter, for the first time, took an active part in the conversation.

“I guess you’ll find it pretty dull up here, with no moving picture shows nor nothing.”

Peggy disclaimed the idea in haste. “Dull! I think it’s perfectly lovely. I couldn’t think of missing anything up here, except folks, you know.”

“Moving pictures ain’t any rarity to me,” said Rosetta Muriel, trying to appear sophisticated. “I’ve seen ’em lots of times. But I get awfully tired of the country. I’ve got a friend who clerks in a store in your town. Maybe you know her. Her name’s Cummings, Gladys Cummings.”

Peggy had never met Miss Cummings, and said so. Rosetta Muriel went on with her description.

“It’s an awful stylish store where she works, Case and Rosenstein’s. And Gladys, she’s awfully stylish, too. She looks as if she’d just stepped out of a fashion plate.” And something in her inflection suggested even to Peggy that from Rosetta Muriel’s standpoint, she had failed to live up to her opportunities. Certainly in a gingham frock two seasons old, and faded by frequent washings, Peggy did not remotely suggest those large-eyed ladies of willowy figure, so seldom met with outside the sheets of fashion periodicals.

“I’ll be glad to call on you some day soon,” said Rosetta Muriel following Peggy to the door. And Peggy, basket in hand, assured her that she would be welcome, and so made her escape. The air was sweet with myriad unfamiliar fragrances. Over in the west, the cloudless blue of the sky was streaked with bands of pink. Peggy reached the road, guiltless of sidewalks, and winding, according to specifications, and broke into a little song as she walked along its dusty edge. Such a beautiful world as it was, and such a beautiful summer as it was going to be. “If I couldn’t sing,” exclaimed Peggy, breaking off in the middle of her refrain, “I believe I should burst.”

Something rustled the grass behind her, and she turned her head. A gaunt dog, of no particular breed, had been following her stealthily, but at her movement he stopped short, apparently ready to take to flight at any indication of hostility on her part. He was by no means a handsome animal, but his big, yellowish-brown eyes had the look of pathetic appeal which is the badge of the homeless, whether dogs or men.

That hunted look, and a little propitiating wag of the tail, which was not so much a wag as a suggestion of what he might do if encouraged, went to Peggy’s heart. “Poor fellow!” she exclaimed, and the mischief was done. Instantly the dog had classified her. She was not the stone-throwing sort of person, who said “get out.” He bounded forward and pressed his head against her so insinuatingly that Peggy found it impossible not to pat it, then gave a little expressive whimper, and fell back at her heels. Whenever Peggy looked behind, during the remainder of her walk, he was following as closely and almost as silently as a shadow.

Peggy had the time to get supper preparations well under way before the other girls made their appearance, pink and drowsy-eyed after their long naps. Priscilla was the first to come down, and she started at the sight of the tawny body stretched upon the doorstep.

“Mercy, Peggy. What’s that?”

“It’s a dog, poor thing, and the thinnest beast I ever imagined.”

“I hope you haven’t been giving him anything to eat, Peggy.”

The flush in Peggy’s cheeks was undoubtedly due to the heat of a blazing wood-fire. “I guess we won’t miss a few dried-up sandwiches,” she said with spirit.

“Oh, it isn’t that. It’s only that if you feed him, we’ll never get rid of him. Doesn’t he look dirty though, like a regular tramp?”

The other girls slipped down one by one, and if there were any truth in the saying that many cooks spoil the broth, Peggy’s anticipations for the supper she had planned, would never have been realized. The meal was almost ready to be put on the table, when Amy appeared, demanding anxiously what she should do to help.

“We really don’t need you a mite,” Peggy assured, with a laugh. “But I’d hate to disappoint such industry. Come here and stir this milk gravy so it won’t burn.”

Amy moved to her post of duty without any unbecoming alacrity.

“I’m not industrious,” she retorted. “And I don’t want to be. I intend to work when you girls make me and that’s all. This is my vacation and I’m going to use it recuperating.”

“I really can’t see the need myself,” Claire whispered to Priscilla, but Priscilla did not return her smile. Amy’s plumpness was a joke which Amy enjoyed as well as anybody, but Claire’s covered whisper seemed to put another face on it. Priscilla bent over a loaf of bread on the board and sliced away with an impassive face.

“And that reminds me,” continued Amy cheerfully, “that I feel like re-naming this cottage for the season. Mrs. Leighton wouldn’t care what we called it.”

“Why, I think Sweet Briar Cottage is a beautiful name,” Claire protested.

“I think so, too. But it’s too dressy to suit my ideas. I’m sure I never could live up to it. Say, girls, I move we call it Dolittle Cottage.”

And, in spite of Claire’s manifest disapproval, the motion was carried.

CHAPTER III
GETTING ACQUAINTED

The squawking of the yellow hen served as an alarm-clock for the late sleepers in Dolittle Cottage the next morning. Peggy who was up, but was loitering over her toilet, in a most un-Peggy-like fashion, scrambled frantically into her clothes and went flying down-stairs. As she threw open the kitchen door, a gaunt dog seated on the top step, greeted her with a courteous waggle, quite as if he were the head of the establishment and bent on doing the honors.

“He wouldn’t let me come no nearer,” said a lanky, grinning individual who stood at a respectful distance, with a basket on either arm. “Looks like he’d adopted you.”

“Yes, it does rather look that way,” returned Peggy, and bestowed an appreciative pat on the dog’s head. It might have been her imagination, but she fancied that a few hours of belonging somewhere, had wrought a marked change in him. If he had been human, she would have said that he seemed more self-respecting. He neither cringed nor cowered, but scrutinized Farmer Cole’s hired man with an alert gravity, as if demanding that he show his credentials.

“Mis’ Cole sent you over this here truck,” Joe explained, “and she says she’ll have Annie bring the bread, after she’s through baking. Where d’you want this hen?”

Peggy led the way to the woodshed, improving the opportunity to sound Joe on the subject of raising chickens. And that unsophisticated youth, who in the beginning of the interview had seemed as painfully conscious of his hands and feet, as if these appendages were brand new, and he had not had time to get accustomed to having them about, lost his embarrassment in view of her evident teachableness, and fairly swamped her with information.

The eighteen eggs for the setting were in a little basket by themselves. Peggy hung over them breathlessly, and saw in fancy eighteen balls of yellow down,