“Miz Williams, I reckon the house goin' fall down!” this pessimist said, arriving out of breath. “That s'iety o' Mist' Sam's suttenly tryin' to pull the roof down on ow haids!” “The roof?” Mrs. Williams inquired mildly. “They aren't in the attic, are they?” “No'm; they in the celluh, but they REACHIN' fer the roof! I nev' did hear no sech a rumpus an' squawkin' an' squawlin' an' fallin' an' whoopin' an' whackin' an' bangin'! They troop down by the outside celluh do', n'en--bang!--they bus' loose, an' been goin' on ev' since, wuss'n Bedlun! Ef they anything down celluh ain' broke by this time, it cain' be only jes' the foundashum, an' I bet THAT ain' goin' stan' much longer! I'd gone down an' stop 'em, but I'm 'fraid to. Hones', Miz Williams, I'm 'fraid o' my life go down there, all that Bedlun goin' on. I thought I come see what you say.” Mrs. Williams laughed. “We have to stand a little noise in the house sometimes, Fanny, when there are boys. They're just playing, and a lot of noise is usually a pretty safe sign.” “Yes'm,” Fanny said. “It's yo' house, Miz Williams, not mine. You want 'em tear it down, I'm willin'.” She departed, and Mrs. Williams continued to sew. The days were growing short, and at five o'clock she was obliged to put the work aside, as her eyes did not permit her to continue it by artificial light. Descending to the lower floor, she found the house silent, and when she opened the front door to see if the evening paper had come, she beheld Sam, Penrod and Maurice Levy standing near the gate engaged in quiet conversation. Penrod and Maurice departed while she was looking for the paper, and Sam came thoughtfully up the walk. “Well, Sam,” she said, “it wasn't such a bad thing, after all, to show a little politeness to Georgie Bassett, was it?” Sam gave her a non-committal look--expression of every kind had been wiped from his countenance. He presented a blank surface. “No'm,” he said meekly. “Everything was just a little pleasanter because you'd been friendly, wasn't it?” “Yes'm.” “Has Georgie gone home?” “Yes'm.” “I hear you made enough noise in the cellar--Did Georgie have a good time?” “Ma'am?” “Did Georgie Bassett have a good time?” “Well”--Sam now had the air of a person trying to remember details with absolute accuracy--“well, he didn't say he did, and he didn't say he didn't.” “Didn't he thank the boys?” “No'm.” “Didn't he even thank you?” “No'm.” “Why, that's queer,” she said. “He's always so polite. He SEEMED to be having a good time, didn't he, Sam?” “Ma'am?” “Didn't Georgie seem to be enjoying himself?” This question, apparently so simple, was not answered with promptness. Sam looked at his mother in a puzzled way, and then he found it necessary to rub each of his shins in turn with the palm of his right hand. “I stumbled,” he said apologetically. “I stumbled on the cellar steps.” “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked quickly. “No'm; but I guess maybe I better rub some arnica--”