This was a Simpsonian version of the matter, the fact being that a white-covered bundle lying on the Meserves' front steps had attracted his practiced eye, and slipping in at the open gate he had swiftly and deftly removed it to his wagon on general principles; thinking if it were clean clothes it would be extremely useful, and in any event there was no good in passing by something flung into your very arms, so to speak. He had had no leisure to examine the bundle, and indeed took little interest in it. Probably he stole it simply from force of habit, and because there was nothing else in sight to steal, everybody's premises being preternaturally tidy and empty, almost as if his visit had been expected! Rebecca was a practical child, and it seemed to her almost impossible that so heavy a bundle should fall out of Mrs. Meserve's buggy and not be noticed; but she hoped that Mr. Simpson was telling the truth, and she was too glad and grateful to doubt anyone at the moment. “Thank you, thank you ever so much, Mr. Simpson. You're the nicest, kindest, politest man I ever knew, and the girls will be so pleased you gave us back the flag, and so will the Dorcas Society; they'll be sure to write you a letter of thanks; they always do.” “Tell 'em not to bother 'bout any thanks,” said Simpson, beaming virtuously. “But land! I'm glad 'twas me that happened to see that bundle in the road and take the trouble to pick it up.” (“Jest to think of it's bein' a flag!” he thought; “if ever there was a pesky, wuthless thing to trade off, 'twould be a great, gormin' flag like that!”) “Can I get out now, please?” asked Rebecca. “I want to go back, for Mrs. Meserve will be dreadfully nervous when she finds out she dropped the flag, and she has heart trouble.” “No, you don't,” objected Mr. Simpson gallantly, turning the horse. “Do you think I'd let a little creeter like you lug that great heavy bundle? I hain't got time to go back to Meserve's, but I'll take you to the corner and dump you there, flag 'n' all, and you can get some o' the men-folks to carry it the rest o' the way. You'll wear it out, huggin' it so!” “I helped make it and I adore it!” said Rebecca, who was in a high-pitched and grandiloquent mood. “Why don't _you_ like it? It's your country's flag.” Simpson smiled an indulgent smile and looked a trifle bored at these frequent appeals to his extremely rusty higher feelings. “I don' know's I've got any partic'lar int'rest in the country,” he remarked languidly. “I know I don't owe nothin' to it, nor own nothin' in it!” “You own a star on the flag, same as everybody,” argued Rebecca, who had been feeding on patriotism for a month; “and you own a state, too, like all of us!” “Land! I wish't I did! or even a quarter section!” sighed Mr. Simpson, feeling somehow a little more poverty-stricken and discouraged than usual.