"Of course I love them," said the boy; "but can't you see that if I let them out now I will lose them? And, besides, they are tame rabbits and don't know how to take care of themselves, and would get into all sorts of trouble, and probably spoil all of the gardens in the neighborhood." Marjorie looked unconvinced. "Your arguments sound all right," she said; "but I am sure that they must be wrong somewhere, because it certainly isn't right for those poor, dear little rabbits to be shut up that way. They ought to be let out right now. The fence is nearly done and they wouldn't try to go through the opening while you are working on it; they would be afraid. If you don't let them out, every one will be talking about how cruel you are. I suppose that is what those people are talking about now," and Marjorie pointed to the persons who had overheard her comments a few moments before. The boy glanced toward them anxiously, and then toward the shed. "Well," he said at last, doubtfully, "perhaps I can manage it;--if only they won't go through the gap before I can get back to it after opening the door," and he turned and walked unwilling toward the shed. "I'll watch the gap," called Marjorie after him. When he reached the building, he hesitated for an instant, and then he drew the bolt and threw open the door; but before he had time to turn and head them off, out scrambled a white wave of rabbits; big and little, fat and thin; and with one accord made straight for the opening in the fence. The boy ran after them, calling excitedly to Marjorie to stand firm and not let them through; and for a moment Marjorie did stand firm before the oncoming army of waving ears and flying feet; but when she felt the first scrambling of paws about her ankles, she lost her nerve, and in a sudden panic she fled wildly across the road and on to the top rail of the fence on the other side; and by the time that the boy reached the opening, the rabbits were scattered in every direction up and down the road and over the fields. For a few moments he stood, looking after them, and then, without glancing toward Marjorie, he took up in his arms one trembling little white fellow who had failed to find the opening, and turned toward the shed with it. Marjorie climbed slowly down from the fence and walked along the road, silently and with her head down. Presently the Dream spoke. "Was it your work that the boy was doing?" he asked. "No," said Marjorie. "Was he worried and uncertain when you came along? Did he ask for your opinion or advice?" "No," said Marjorie. "And what did you do?" Marjorie spoke in a very low voice, but very steadily. "I criticised him unjustly; I talked about him in the hearing of other people, and some of them will never know that he was right and I was wrong; and I interfered, and now--" Marjorie stopped and swallowed hard. "And now--what?" asked the Dream. "I am sorry," said Marjorie humbly. "So is the boy," said the Dream.