Cranberry-picking did not start next morning till ground and bushes had dried a little. Grandpa and Daddy had time first to knock together stools and a table, and to find on a dumpheap a little old stove, which they propped up and mended so Grandma could cook on it. "The land's sakes," Grandma grumbled, "a hobo contraption like that!" While they washed the breakfast dishes and straightened the one room, the grown-ups discussed whether the children should work in the bog. Their Italian neighbor in the next shack had said, "No can maka da living unless da keeds dey work, too. Dey can work. My youngest, he four year and he work good." "Likely we could take Baby along, and Jimmie could watch her while we pick," Grandma said dubiously. "But my fingers are all thumbs when I've got them children on my mind.--Somebody's at the door." A tall young girl with short yellow curls stood tapping at the open door. Grandma looked at her approvingly, her blouse was so crisply white. "Good morning," said the girl. "I've come from the Center, where we have a day nursery for the little folks." She smiled down at Jimmie and Sally. "Wouldn't you like us to take care of yours while the grown-ups are working?" She made the older children feel grown-up by the polite way she looked at them. "I've heard of the Centers," Grandma said, leaning on her broom. "But I never did get much notion what you did with the young-ones there." "Well, all sorts of things," said the girl. "They sing and make things and learn Bible verses. And in the afternoon they have a nap-time. It's loads of fun for them." "They take their lunch along?" Grandma inquired. "Oh, no! A good hot lunch is part of the program." "But, then, how much does it cost?" "A nickel apiece a day." "Come, come, young lady, that don't make sense," Grandpa objected. "You'd lose money lickety-split." The girl laughed. "We aren't doing it for money. We get money and supplies from groups of women in all the different churches. The owner of the bog helps, too. But we'll have to hurry, or your row boss will be tooting his whistle." Her eyes were admiring children and shack as she talked. Though not like Grandma's lost house, this camp was already clean and orderly. [Illustration: On the way to the Center] So the three went to the Center, the girl carrying Sally, and Jimmie hobbling along in sulky silence. Jimmie had stayed so much at home that he didn't know how to behave with strangers. Because he didn't want anyone to guess that he was bashful, he frowned fiercely. Because he didn't want anyone to think him "sissy," he had his wavy hair clipped till his head looked like a golf ball. He was a queer, unhappy boy. He was unhappier when they reached the big, bright, shabby house that was the Center. Could it be safe to let Sally mingle with the ragged, dirty children who were flocking in, he wondered?