play with her, she hunted with all her might for finer pieces of bark and choicer bits of moss, and gay indeed was the little fleet with its red-capped crew and passengers. Prue wandered off to find even finer mosses, and Randy was trying to capture a big water-spider for a passenger for a piece of birch bark, when Prue came rushing down the path, crying, “Look, Randy! Look! Here’s old Mr. Plimpkins to sail in one of our boats.”

In her surprise Randy let the water-spider escape, and, turning about, saw Prue quite alone, running toward her, laughing and holding out something which she had in her hand.

“Prue Weston! what do you mean?” said Randy.

Old Mr. Plimpkins was a farmer who lived at the outskirts of the town, but Prue had seen him at church, and she thought him the funniest man she had ever seen.

He was nearly as broad as he was tall. Winter and summer, he habitually wore very broad-brimmed hats, and he walked with a comical waddle, because his legs were completely bowed. As if to attract attention to these members, they were always encased in light, snuff-colored trousers, while about his neck, hot weather or cold, was always wrapped an immense red plaid cotton handkerchief.

As Prue came along, she handed out to Randy the object which she called Mr. Plimpkins, and, sure enough, clutched tightly in the little hot hand, was a bit of twig on which two stems bowed together until they nearly touched. On it, for a broad-brimmed hat, she had stuck a round green leaf.

“Oh, I think it must be naughty to laugh about him, even if he is funny,” said Randy.

“But doesn’t it look like him?” persisted Prue, “besides, you’re laughing, Randy, only not out loud.”

Indeed, Randy was laughing, so, without attempting to reprove the little sister, she placed the bit of birch, which represented the old farmer, on the bark, and watched Prue as she floated it down the stream. Then, turning toward home, they walked along the path which led to the entrance to the wood.

Prue sang all the way, and, seeing her happiness, Randy, sweet Randy, felt rewarded for the afternoon given up to her little sister’s amusement; but she felt that the reading of the fairy tales was not a success. Clearly, the stories were beyond little Prue; for, at the supper table, when there was a pause in the conversation, she described the afternoon and Randy’s reading, much to Randy’s surprise and her father’s amusement.

“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, “we’ve been down to the brook, sailing boats, an’ Randy read me the beautifulest story! The girl’s name was—I’ve forgotten what, but her hair comed down to the ground, and the prince clumb up on it, and ’most pulled her head off, and the tower was so small the old witch couldn’t live in it, and she cut her hair off, and that’s all I can think of, ’cept the girl sang all the time, and the prince could hear her, and we sat on the plank and waited for the prince to come.”

All this she said in one breath. Her father laughed heartily at her manner of telling the story, but Mrs. Weston said, “What on airth does the child mean?” while Randy decided to read the stories to herself, thereafter, and amuse Prue in another way.

CHAPTER III—RANDY AT CHURCH

“Come, Randy, come! It wants a quarter to ten, an’ you’d better hurry.”

“Yes, mother, I’m coming,” said Randy, pleasantly, and with redoubled energy she reached for the middle button of her dress waist, which was fastened at the back. This button was just too high for her left hand to reach up to, and almost too low for her right hand to reach down to, but at last she succeeded in crowding the refractory little button into its buttonhole, and, flushed with the struggle, she stood before the tiny looking-glass brushing a stray curling lock from her temple. The glass was a poor one, and Randy’s reflection appeared to be making a most unpleasant grimace at the real girl standing there. When she lifted her chin, a flaw in the glass made one eye appear much larger than the other, and when she bent her head, you would never have believed that the little nose in the glass was a reproduction of Randy’s, so singular was its contour. Truly, with such mirrors as the farm-house afforded, Randy stood little chance of becoming vain.

“Come, Randy!” Randy started, took one more look at the stiff gingham dress, then hastened down the stairs. At the door stood Mrs. Weston, impatiently waiting for her, while little Prue patted the old cat and told her that she “mustn’t be lonesome while they were all at church.”

Into the wagon they climbed, and away they started to the church. Their progress was slow, for the old horse was far from a “racer” at any time, and on Sunday Mr. Weston felt it to be wrong to more than walk the horse; yet, even with such slow locomotion, they did at last reach the church, and the old horse was duly ensconced in the carriage-shed to dream away the forenoon.

The Westons had arrived a bit early, and Randy amused herself surveying the few parishioners who had already come. In that country town the neighbors were few and far between. The Westons’ nearest neighbor was about a mile and a half distant, and so on Sundays it was quite a treat to see so many people.

There were the Babson girls just a few pews in front of Randy. Randy thought Belinda Babson very pretty, mainly because of her fine yellow braids of straight hair. These braids lay down Belinda’s broad back, falling quite below her waist.

Her sister Jemima’s braids were even thicker and longer; but then, Randy reflected, Jemima’s braids were red.

There was Jotham Potts, whose black eyes always espied Randy at church or school, but whose regard she did not at all value. True, on one hot Sunday when Randy had found it well-nigh impossible to keep awake, Jotham had reached over the top of the pew and dropped some big peppermints in her lap. His intention was good, and Randy blushed and was delighted, although her pleasure was partly spoiled by a snicker from Phœbe Small, who longed to win Jotham’s admiration, but thus far had failed to gain it. Randy had inspected every boy and girl in the church and was just watching a big blue fly that was circling around a web in the angle of the window, when a slight stir among the occupants of the other pews caused Randy to look around and become delighted with a sweet vision. With Farmer Gray and his wife came a number of ladies and gentlemen; summer boarders who were to be at the Gray homestead a number of weeks; but to Randy’s eyes, the young lady who took a seat next to Mrs. Gray seemed a dream of beauty. She wore a simple white muslin and a very large hat trimmed with daisies, but to the little country maid the city girl’s costume was nothing short of magnificent.

It had always been Randy’s delight when the choir arose to sing, to watch Miss Dobbs, the little woman who sang soprano, as she drew herself up to her full height in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of the page of the hymn book, the other half of which was held by Silas Barnes, the phenomenally tall tenor. Equally amusing was the tall, thin woman who sang “second,” standing beside her cousin, John Hobson, who sang bass with all his might. He was short, fat, and very dark, and his musical efforts, which were mighty, caused a scowl upon his usually jovial countenance, and a deal of perspiration as well.

But to-day when the choir