"That child is a perfect fly-away. I can no more lay my hands on her when I need her than I could on a flea. She is off to the pasture, or out watching the men plow, or trotting away, no one knows where, with the two pups. And the worst of it is you encourage her in it, Father. You forget she is thirteen years old--almost a woman in size! She is too old to be such a tomboy. She should be spending her time on her music and sewing, or learning to cook--now that school's out for the summer." Dr. Morton laughed. "Oh, let up on the music for a year or two, Mother. Chicken Little's developing finely. She's a first rate little cook already. You couldn't have prepared a better breakfast yourself than she gave us that morning you were sick. You don't realize how much she does help you, and as to running about the farm, that will be the making of her. She is growing tall and strong and rosy. You don't want to make her into an old woman." "It is all very well to talk, Father, but I intend to have my only daughter an accomplished lady, and I think you ought to help me. She is too old to be wasting her time this way. But have you any idea where she is? I want to send her over to Benton's after eggs. I have used all mine up for settings, and I can't make the custard pies you are so fond of, till I get some." Dr. Morton laughed again. "Yes, I have an exact idea where she is. Set your kettle back on the stove a moment and come and see." Mrs. Morton followed him, leaving her doughnuts rather reluctantly. Ranch life had proved full of hardships to her. The hardships had been intensified because it was almost impossible to secure competent servants, or, indeed, servants of any kind. The farmer's daughters were proud--too proud to work in a neighbor's kitchen even if they went shabby or, as often happened among the poorer ones, barefoot, for lack of the money they might easily have earned. Mrs. Morton was not a strong woman and the unaccustomed drudgery was telling on her health and spirits. Dr. Morton, on the other hand, enjoyed the open-air life and the freedom from conventional dress and other hampering niceties. Mrs. Morton followed her husband through the long dining room and little hall to the square parlor beyond. He stopped in the doorway and motioned her to come quietly. Jane sat curled up in a big chair with two fat, limp collie pups fast asleep in her lap. She was so lost in a book that she scarcely seemed to breathe in the minute or two they stood and watched her. "Well, I declare, why didn't she answer me when I called?" "Chicken Little," Dr. Morton called softly. Chicken Little read placidly on. "Chicken Little,"--a little louder. Still no response. "Chicken Little," her father raised his voice. Chicken Little never batted an eyelash. One of the dogs looked up with an inquiring expression, but apparently satisfying himself that he was not to be disturbed, dozed off again. "Chicken Little--Chick-en Lit-tle!"