He could not be prevailed upon to eat any of the supper which had been prepared for him; however, with a faint smile, he told Susan that he thought he could eat one of her guinea-hen’s eggs. She thanked him, and with that nimble alacrity which marks the desire to please, she ran to her neat chicken-yard; but, alas! her guinea-hen was not there—it had strayed into the attorney’s garden. She saw it through the paling, and timidly opening the little gate, she asked Miss Barbara, who was walking slowly by, to let her come in and take her guinea-hen. Barbara, who was at this instant reflecting, with no agreeable feelings, upon the conversation of the village children, to which she had recently listened, started when she heard Susan’s voice, and with a proud, ill-humoured look and voice, refused her request. “Shut the gate,” said Barbara, “you have no business in our garden; and as for your hen, I shall keep it; it is always flying in here, and plaguing us, and my father says it is a trespasser; and he told me I might catch it and keep it the next time it got in, and it is in now.” Then Barbara called to her maid, Betty, and bid her catch the mischievous hen. “Oh, my guinea-hen! my pretty guinea-hen!” cried Susan, as they hunted the frightened, screaming creature from corner to corner. “Here we have got it!” said Betty, holding it fast by the legs. “Now pay damages, Queen Susan, or good-bye to your pretty guinea-hen,” said Barbara, in an insulting tone. “Damages! what damages?” said Susan; “tell me what I must pay.” “A shilling,” said Barbara. “Oh, if sixpence would do!” said Susan; “I have but sixpence of my own in the world, and here it is.” “It won’t do,” said Barbara, turning her back. “Nay, but hear me,” cried Susan; “let me at least come in to look for its eggs. I only want _one_ for my father’s supper; you shall have all the rest.” “What’s your father, or his supper to us? is he so nice that he can eat none but guinea-hen’s eggs?” said Barbara. “If you want your hen and your eggs, pay for them, and you’ll have them.” “I have but sixpence, and you say that won’t do,” said Susan with a sigh, as she looked at her favourite, which was in the maid’s grasping hands, struggling and screaming in vain. Susan retired disconsolate. At the door of her father’s cottage she saw her friend Rose, who was just come to summon her to the hawthorn bush. “They are all at the hawthorn, and I am come for you. We can do nothing without _you_, dear Susan,” cried Rose, running to meet her, at the moment she saw her. “You are chosen Queen of the May—come, make haste. But what is the matter? why do you look so sad?”