“I didn’t tear it, Aunt Rebecca. It tore itself--kind of.” “Kind of! Elizabeth Frances, aprons do not tear themselves, and you have always been perfectly truthful--I brought you up so,” said Aunt Rebecca sternly. “Yes’m,” said Beth, flushing all over her sweet little round face. “I’ll tell you,” she began, forced to explain by her habit of obedience and her truthful upbringing, “I took it off and hung it on the low boughs of the tree when I climbed it--it was the apple tree, the old Baldwin apple tree down by the well we never use. And when I came down I was in a hurry, so I guess I took it off snatchified, because it caught and tore. I suppose if I’d have been slower I’d have felt the caught place and unhooked it, but--it just slit.” “It looks as if it did! You’ll have to mend it neatly, put a patch under it and fasten the frayed edges before you sew. What were you doing up in an apple tree, a great girl like you?” said Aunt Rebecca. “Oh, dear! must I mend it? It’s a three-cornered tear!” sighed Beth. “I s’pose I ought, because it’s my apron--though I’m sure I never wanted it.” “It’s your tear, too,” observed Beth’s aunt dryly. “You haven’t told me what you were doing up in the apple tree, nor why you had to take off your apron when you climbed.” Beth looked around the familiar room and glanced appealingly down at the worn carpet footstool. Then she looked higher, at the big rocking-chair with the cushion tied on its back, the cushion that always went flip-flap above Beth’s head when she sat in that chair, because she was not quite tall enough to lean against it. Then her eyes rose to the narrow mantelpiece above the resolute stove, faithful to its office, but hideous to look upon. She looked at the blue vase with the pink roses, at the pink vase with the yellow chrysanthemums on it which stood, a pair, yet not matching, one on each end of the shelf. She looked at the clock that stood in the middle, with Time and his scythe reclining on its top, at the chubby china boy with a muffler around his throat and a match box on his back, and at the china lamb, which flanked the clock on either side, but none of these lifelong friends gave Beth any suggestion for her explanation. There was nothing to do but explain without help, though she knew that Aunt Rebecca would not understand. “I climbed the tree, Aunt Rebecca, because I was playing ‘Watchman, tell us of the night,’” Beth said slowly. “I was the Watchman and Shep was the Traveler-o’er-yon-mountain-height--there wasn’t anybody else to be it--don’t you see?” “I certainly do not see,” said Aunt Rebecca in a tone which implied that her not seeing was much to Beth’s discredit. “That is a hymn, not a game, and what can it have to do with climbing trees?”