David quietly took the pail and books from the little girl. "I'll take you to school, Janey, and come for you this afternoon." "We won't need to git no watch dog to foller Janey," said Barnabas, as the children started down the path. "David," called M'ri, "stop at Miss Rhody's on your way back and find out whether my waist is finished." With proudly protective air, David walked beside the stiffly starched little girl, who had placed her hand trustfully in his. They had gone but a short distance when they were overtaken by Joe Forbes, mounted on a shining black horse. He reined up and looked down on them good-humoredly. [Illustration: "_With proudly protective air, David walked beside the stiffly starched little girl_"] "Going to school, children?" "I am. Davey's just going to carry my things for me," explained Janey. "Well, I can do that and carry you into the bargain. Help her up, David." Janey cried out in delight at the prospect of a ride. David lifted her up, and Joe settled her comfortably in the saddle, encircling her with his arm. Then he looked down whimsically into David's disappointed eyes. "I know it's a mean trick, Dave, to take your little sweetheart from you." "She's not my sweetheart; she's my sister." "Has she promised to be that already? Get up, Firefly." They were off over the smooth country road, Forbes shouting a bantering good-by and Janey waving a triumphant dinner pail, while David, trudging on his way, experienced the desolate feeling of the one who is left behind. Across fields he came to the tiny, thatched cottage of Miss Rhody Crabbe, who stood on the crumbling doorstep feeding some little turkeys. "Come in, David. I suppose you're after M'ri's waist. Thar's jest a few stitches to take, and I'll hev it done in no time." He followed her into the little house, which consisted of a sitting room "with bedroom off," and a kitchen whose floor was sand scoured; the few pieces of tinware could be used as mirrors. Miss Rhody seated herself by the open window and began to ply her needle. She did not sew swiftly and smoothly, in feminine fashion, but drew her long-threaded needle through the fabric in abrupt and forceful jerks. A light breeze fluttered in through the window, but it could not ruffle the wisp-locked hair that showed traces of a water-dipped comb and was strained back so taut that a little mound of flesh encircled each root. Her eyes were bead bright and swift moving. Everything about her, to the aggressively prominent knuckles, betokened energy and industry. She was attired in a blue calico shortened by many washings, but scrupulously clean and conscientiously starched. Her face shone with soap and serenity.