"Now, Mopsy Midget, don't talk nonsense. You're twelve years old. You've a lot to learn before you're a grown-up, and most of it must be learned by experience. If you never do anything, you'll never get any experience, and at twenty you'll only know as much as you did at twelve! How would you like that?" "Not much," said Marjorie, whose spirits rose as her father adopted a lighter tone. "Then just go on and have your experiences. Cut up jinks and have all the fun you can; but try to learn as you go along to discriminate between the things you ought to do and the things you oughtn't. You won't always guess right, but if you keep on living you can always guess again." "What did those men say?" asked King, who was brooding over the scene in the post-office. "Oh! they were pretty mad at first, and I think they were quite ready to come after you children with tomahawks and war-whoops. But Mr. Fulton and I patted them fondly on the shoulder, and told them you were harmless lunatics and they mustn't mind you." "We're not crazy, Father," said Kitty, who was inclined to be literal. "No, Kitsie, you're not; and I don't want you to drive me crazy, either. You're three of the most delightful children I ever met, and whenever I can pull you out of your scrapes I'm only too glad to do so. I may as well tell you at once that Mr. Fulton and I fixed up this Imp Society matter very satisfactorily; and if you don't start in to lay a new asphalt road, or build a cathedral, I think I can keep up with you." "How did you fix it, Father?" asked Marjorie, brightening with renewed interest, as she learned that the trouble was over. "Oh! I told the gentlemen who were most interested that if they didn't like the way my children improved this village that they'd better do the improving themselves. And they said they would." "Really, Father?" "Really, King. So now you're all well out of it, and I want you to stay out. Unless they ask for your assistance, later on; and I doubt if they'll do that, for between you and me they don't seem to approve of your methods." "I think it was dreadful for the children to write those letters," said Mrs. Maynard. "And I don't think, Ed, that you've quite explained to them how very wrong it was." "Perhaps not," said Mr. Maynard, "but can't we leave that part of the subject till some other time? For my part, I'm quite exhausted scolding these young reprobates, and I'd like a change to smiles instead of tears. And somehow I have a growing conviction that they'll never do it again. Will you, chickabiddies?" "No, sir!" came in a hearty chorus. "Of course they won't," said Mrs. Maynard, laughing. "It will be some other ridiculous freak. But I'll be glad to drop the subject for the present, too, and have a pleasant half-hour before it's bedtime for babes." "And aren't we to be punished?" asked Marjorie, in surprise.