"Who told you about it?" asked Kitty, disappointedly. "It was to be a secret, until all the town was stirred up." "The town is pretty well stirred up now, my girl. But I don't want reports of my children's doings from other people. Tell me all about it, yourselves." "We will, Father," said Marjorie, evidently glad of the chance. "You tell, King; you're president." Nothing loath, King began the tale. He gave a full account of their desire to do something that would be a public benefit of some sort. He told of Dick's suggestion, founded upon Mr. Fulton's remarks about a Village Improvement Society. He explained that they wrote letters because they hadn't money enough for any more expensive proceeding, and he wound up by proudly stating that they had mailed sixteen letters already, and hoped to send more the following week. So earnest was the boy in his description of the work, and so honest his pride in their efforts so far, that Mr. Maynard deeply regretted the necessity of changing his view of the matter. "Kingdon," he said, "you're fourteen years old, and I think you're old enough to know that you ought not to engage in such important affairs without getting the advice of older people." "Oh, Father!" cried Marjorie. "Was this wrong, too? Is _everything_ mischief? Can't we do anything at all without we have to be punished for it? We thought this was truly a good work, and we thought we were doing our duty!" Like a little whirlwind, Marjorie flew across the room, and threw herself, sobbing, into her father's arms. "My dear child," he said, kissing her hot little brow, "wait a moment till I explain. We want to talk over this matter, and get each other's ideas about it." "But you're going to say it was wrong,--I know you are! And I was trying so hard _not_ to do naughty things. Oh, Father, how can I tell what I can do, and what I can't?" "There, there, Midget, now stop crying. You're not going to be punished; you don't deserve to be. What you did was not wrong in itself,--at least it would not have been for older people. But you children are ignorant of the ways of the grown-up world, and so you ought not to have taken the responsibility of dictating to or advising grown people. That was the wrong part." "But we meant it for their good, sir, more than for our own," said King, by way of justification. "That's just it, Kingdon, my boy. You're too young yet to know what _is_ for the good of grown men and women who are old enough to be your parents and grandparents. You wouldn't think of dictating to your mother or myself 'for our good,' would you? And all grown people ought to be equally free from your unasked advice." "But, Father," insisted King, "if you kept this place looking like a rubbish-heap, wouldn't I have a right to ask you not to?"