“Folks can't stop to figure out just what's the Lord's will when a child has upset a kettle of scalding water on to himself,” and as she spoke Jane darned more excitedly. “Mrs. Fogg knows well enough she hadn't ought to have left that baby alone in the kitchen with the stove, even if she did see Clara Belle comin' across lots. She'd ought to have waited before drivin' off; but of course she was afraid of missing the train, and she's too good a woman to be held accountable.” “The minister's wife says Clara Belle is a real--I can't think of the word!” chimed in Rebecca. “What's the female of hero? Whatever it is, that's what Mrs. Baxter called her!” “Clara Belle's the female of Simpson; that's what she is,” Miss Miranda asserted; “but she's been brought up to use her wits, and I ain't sayin' but she used 'em.” “I should say she did!” exclaimed Miss Jane; “to put that screaming, suffering child in the baby-carriage and run all the way to the doctor's when there wasn't a soul on hand to advise her! Two or three more such actions would make the Simpson name sound consid'rable sweeter in this neighborhood.” “Simpson will always sound like Simpson to me!” vouchsafed the elder sister, “but we've talked enough about 'em an' to spare. You can go along, Rebecca; but remember that a child is known by the company she keeps.” “All right, Aunt Miranda; thank you!” cried Rebecca, leaping from the chair on which she had been twisting nervously for five minutes. “And how does this strike you? Would you be in favor of my taking Clara Belle a company-tart?” “Don't Mrs. Fogg feed the young one, now she's taken her right into the family?” “Oh, yes,” Rebecca answered, “she has lovely things to eat, and Mrs. Fogg won't even let her drink skim milk; but I always feel that taking a present lets the person know you've been thinking about them and are extra glad to see them. Besides, unless we have company soon, those tarts will have to be eaten by the family, and a new batch made; you remember the one I had when I was rewarding myself last week? That was queer--but nice,” she added hastily. “Mebbe you could think of something of your own you could give away without taking my tarts!” responded Miranda tersely; the joints of her armor having been pierced by the fatally keen tongue of her niece, who had insinuated that company-tarts lasted a long time in the brick house. This was a fact; indeed, the company-tart was so named, not from any idea that it would ever be eaten by guests, but because it was too good for every-day use. Rebecca's face crimsoned with shame that she had drifted into an impolite and, what was worse, an apparently ungrateful speech. “I didn't mean to say anything not nice, Aunt Miranda,” she stammered. “Truly the tart was splendid, but not exactly like new, that's all. And oh! I know what I can take Clara Belle! A few chocolate drops out of the box Mr. Ladd gave me on my birthday.”