The Marcotte twins, again prepared for burial, quarrelled most engagingly as to which should be buried under the apple-tree, both preferring that fruitful resting-place to the barren waste under the snowball bush; but nobody listened because Rosa Marie was doing extraordinary things with her bowl of bread and milk. Having lapped the milk like a cat, she was deftly chasing the crumbs round the bowl with a greedy and experienced tongue. It was plain that Rosa Marie had no table manners. As for the infantile Tuckers, they were an old story. On this occasion they crawled into the corner cupboard and went to sleep and nobody missed them for a whole hour, just because Rosa Marie was emitting queer little startled grunts every time Marjory's best doll wailed "Mam-mah!" "Pap-pah!" for her benefit. There was no doubt about it, Rosa Marie was decidedly amusing. The day passed swiftly; much too swiftly, Mabel thought. Very much mothered Rosa Marie, who had obligingly consumed an amazing amount of milk--all, indeed, that the Cottagers had been able to procure--started homeward, towed by Mabel. That elated young person had declined all offers of company; she coveted the full glory of returning Rosa Marie to her rightful guardian. Mabel, indeed, was visibly swollen with pride. She had given the Cottagers a most unusual treat. She had not only surprised them by proving that she _could_ borrow a baby, but had kept them amused and entertained every moment of the day. It had certainly been a red-letter day in the annals of Dandelion Cottage. Mabel more than half expected to meet Rosa Marie's mother at the very first corner. The other real mothers had always seemed desirous--over desirous, Mabel thought--of welcoming their home-coming babies back to the fold; but the mother of Rosa Marie, apparently, was of a less grudging disposition. Mabel laboriously escorted her reluctant charge to the very door of the shanty without encountering any welcoming parent. The borrower of Rosa Marie knocked. No one came. She tried the door. It was locked. "How queer!" said Mabel. "Seems to me I'd be on hand if I had an engagement at exactly six o'clock. But then, I always _am_ late." Dragging an empty wooden box to the side of the house, Mabel climbed to the high, decidedly smudgy window and peered in. There was no one inside. There was no fire in the battered stove. The doors of a rough cupboard opposite the window stood open, disclosing the fact that the cupboard was bare. There were no bedclothes in the rough bunk that served for a bed; no dishes on the table; no clothing hanging from the hooks on the wall. Both inside and outside the house wore a strangely deserted aspect. It seemed to say: "Nobody lives here now, nobody ever did live here, nobody ever will live here." CHAPTER IV An Unusual Evening MABEL looked in dismay at Rosa Marie. "Where do you s'pose your mother is?" she demanded.