The Bright family were fast approaching. In despair Martin turned to Hoodie. "I am obliged to let you walk with me, Miss Julian," she said, solemnly, "because I cannot have every one in the road see how naughty you are. But when we get home I shall speak to your Mamma, and ask her to let you go walks alone. You make us all miserable." Hoodie took Martin's hand and marched on. "I should like to go walks alone, werry much," she said, amiably, to which remark Martin did not make any reply. The Bright family passed them with a friendly word to Martin, saying something in praise of the nice appearance of her little charges. And Hoodie smiled back to farmer Bright, as if she thought herself the best and sweetest-tempered of little girls. Then when they were out of sight, she suddenly dropped Martin's hand. "I don't want to walk with you. You're an ugly 'sing too," she said. "I like to walk belone, but I would walk with you if I _said_ I would." And on she marched defiantly, well in front of the whole party. And again poor Martin murmured to herself,--"Was there _ever_ such a child?" What was Hoodie saying to herself on in front where no one could hear her? "They don't love me. They like me to be away. Nobody loves poor Hoodie. Hoodie can't be good when nobody loves her. It isn't Hoodie's fault." And through her babyish brain there ran misty, dreamy ideas of something she would do to make "them" all sorry--she would go away somewhere "far, far," and never come back again. But where? This she could not yet settle about, but fortunately for the peace of the rest of the walk her cogitations kept her quiet till they were all at home again. Martin's threat of speaking to Hoodie's mother was not at once carried out. And Martin herself began to think better of it when at tea-time Hoodie behaved herself quite respectably. The naughty mood had passed again for the time, it seemed. Sitting round the table in the intervals of bread-and-butter and honey--for it was Sunday evening, "honey evening" the little boys called it--the children chatted together pleasantly. Martin's story had greatly impressed them. "Weren't you frightened at first when you saw the big, big doggie, Martin?" said Maudie. "_Might_ have been a woof," remarked Duke, whose ideas had a knack of getting so well lodged in his brain that it was often difficult to get them out again. "But there _are_ no wolfs. I told you so before," said Maudie. "No," said Duke, "you toldened Hoodie so. You didn't tolden me." "Well, _dear_ Duke, what does it matter?" said Magdalen, with a slight touch of impatience in her tone. "You heard me say it, and you do go on and on so about a thing." Hoodie looked up with a twinkle in her eyes. "Peoples always calls each other 'dear' whenever they doesn't like each other," she remarked. Maudie flashed round upon her. "That isn't true. I do like Duke--don't I, Duke? And Hec too--don't I love you dearly, Hec and Duke?"