the morning glories as they clambered up the other side of the door-frame and half covered the kitchen window.

The cool wind from across the meadow fanned Randy’s flushed cheeks, and tossed back some short brown ringlets from her forehead, for Randy’s hair would curl, as she said, “spite of anything.” She did her best with brush and comb to make it lie smoothly, but the short ends flew back every time, and curled and rippled in a manner which would have been the envy of many a city girl who was a slave to “curlers.” Her hair was a soft, light brown, and her eyes were large and gray, bright and twinkling. She was quite tall for a girl of her age, just fifteen that summer, and she stood as “straight as a birch,” her father said.

Her plain calico gown and coarse apron could not hide her trim figure; and, judging by her small, shapely hands, and slender fingers, one would say that with dainty boots instead of cowhides, her feet would be as shapely as her hands. But Randy had never thought much about beauty or personal adornment until the finding of the wonderful fairy book. She had been dressed like the other children in that little country town, and had never seen a fashion book or a stylishly dressed person in her life. Mrs. Weston had taught her children to think that to be neat and clean was to be well dressed, and certainly Randy and Prue were always dressed in clean gowns and aprons, and stiff-starched sunbonnets. Yes, Randy was more than pretty. Would she one day know it?

Long and patient calling brought no answering shout from little Prue, so Randy snatched her sunbonnet from its peg on the wall, and started in search of her. She looked in every place, both possible and impossible, and she laughed as she thought of the funny scrapes the little sister had gotten into. She thought of the day on which their aunt, Miss Prudence Weston, had come to visit them, bringing three bags and as many bundles, although she was to stay but a week.

She had always lived in a little town in one of the Western states, and as that week’s stay was her first visit to her brother’s home, she was really a stranger to Randy and Prue. The children had known only that little Prue was her namesake, and that she was a person well-nigh perfect.

“Your Aunt Prudence never did that,” was a remark so frequently addressed to little Prue that that lively, mischievous little being conceived a great dislike for so perfect a person; and, although she dared not say so to either father or mother, she confessed it freely to Randy when at night they lay in their little bed in the chamber under the eaves.

“I think it would be just horrid to live in this house if Aunt Prudence lived here too, don’t you, Randy?” said little Prue in a loud whisper. “You’re good, Randy, and you know I love you, but you can be naughty and Aunt Prudence can’t, that’s the difference.”

“Oh, hush!” Randy had said. “I most think it’s naughty not to like her. We don’t know but may be she’s real nice if we knew her.”

“Don’t want to,” whispered Prue, “don’t want to, ever. If she staid here I’d—I mean I’d—” but the tired little sister had gone fast asleep and left Randy to wonder just what she would have done.

Immediately upon her arrival Miss Prudence had removed her wraps, and had at once taken out her knitting from a voluminous pocket, saying to the two staring children, as she peered at them over her glasses, “It’s not right to waste time,” and as soon as they had made their escape to the kitchen, naughty little Prue had said, “Randy Weston! If keeping busy would make me look like that, I’d just do nothing forever and ever.”

Funny little Prue! Aunt Prudence’s sharp eyes behind her spectacles, her “false front,” and tall, angular figure, had strengthened the child’s preconceived dislike. Then that day before their aunt had bidden adieu to the Weston farm, Randy had caught Prue perched upon a chair, which made her just high enough to see herself in the glass. On her head was Miss Prudence’s best cap, on her saucy little nose the big, old-fashioned spectacles, over which she peered at herself, saying, in imitation of her aunt, “I never waste time, no, not a single minute.”

Randy had escaped to the barn where, on the hay, she had laughed until she was tired; all the time feeling guilty, for she knew that, funny as the sight had been, Prue had been very naughty. Prue was a little captive in the house that afternoon, a great trial for her, and at night her father had talked with her and told her that she must always be kind to every one, especially to old people, and Prue had promised, at the same time saying that, “if Aunt Prudence was always good, it was easier for grown-up people to be good.”

Around the house and barn, down by the well, and, lastly, into the barn went Randy, calling, “Prue! Prue! where are you?”

“Here!” called a little voice.

“Where?” shouted Randy.

“Up here!” came the answer, which appeared to come from the loft.

Up the ladder went Randy, and, once at the top, she espied a funny little figure sitting on the hay. “Why, Prue,” said Randy, “what are you doing up here? Why didn’t you come when I called?”

“I couldn’t,” said Prue; “I’m helping mother, and I’ve got to stay. Mother said you could help her make pies, so I came up here and I’m sitting on some eggs. The old hen’s left them, and mother said they’d just got to be set on.”

“Oh, Prue!” said Randy, “you’d ought to know better. If you’ve smashed them, won’t you be a sight?”

“I ain’t smashed them,” said the child; but upon Randy’s insisting, she rose from the nest, only to show that not an egg remained whole, as her pink calico dress plainly showed.

“Well, I never got into such scrapes,” said Randy, for once out of patience.

“Now, Randy,” said Prue, “don’t you talk that way; that’s just like Aunt Prudence;” and that silenced Randy completely.

Randy’s first thought was a longing to shield Prue, but she knew that her mother wished them always to come to her at once when any mischief had been done, so, a forlorn little procession of two, they walked toward the house.

CHAPTER II—AT THE BROOK

The next morning dawned bright and fair. Randy awoke and rubbed her eyes. “I believe there was something that made me uncomfortable yesterday. Wonder what it was?” thought she. “Don’t see what it could have been,” mused the girl, half awake. “I helped mother with the baking and swept the kitchen for her, because I knew I ought to, instead of reading that fairy book. Then I hunted for Prue.—Oh, that’s it! mother had to scold her, and that always makes me feel just awful.

“She was naughty, and seems ’s if she might know better than to get into such queer scrapes, though she isn’t much more than a baby.”

Here Randy turned over and looked at her little sister, who was still fast asleep. “How pretty she looks!” said Randy, half aloud. The sleeping child stirred, and thrust one chubby arm and hand under her short curls. She drew a long breath, which was half a sigh, her eyelids quivered, opened, closed, then opened wide, and she stared at Randy, who, leaning upon her elbow, was gazing at little Prue.

“Oh, Randy! what are you looking at and thinking of?” said Prue, half laughing.

“I was just thinking,” said Randy, “that when you’re asleep you