“The Hopolanthus desires you to call and explain.” “The--the who? I want to go right straight home.” interrupted Priscilla, with quite a good deal of shakiness in her voice. The spider looked surprised, and for a moment he stood up perfectly erect--that is to say, as perfectly erect as is possible for a person with that kind of a stomach. “Whenever a little girl lies down in the shade of the Hopolanthus Tree,” he went on, sternly, “it means that the Hopolanthus has business with her, and the only thing for me to do is to decide upon the route. I must ask you a question or two. Did you ever study botany?” “Why--why, yes--some,” replied Priscilla, as soon as she had caught her breath. “You have, eh! Well, then, how many cousins had your grandfather’s aunt? Be a little quick, please.” “Why--but--you see--I guess I--I don’t know. Anyway,” she added, indignantly, as it dawned upon her that she was being imposed upon, “that hasn’t anything to do with botany. Not the least mite in the world.” “Yes, it has. Yes, it has,” retorted the old spider, testily. “It’s the very first thing you ought to know. It’s about your own family tree. I’m simply shocked.” “You’re just dreadful,” exclaimed Priscilla, angrily, stamping her foot on the rough bark. “I shall not go a--” “Oh, yes, I guess you will,” responded the spider, with a queer little twinkle in his eyes. Then, before Priscilla could tell him that she really and truly wouldn’t move a step, she felt herself rapidly approaching the trunk of the tree. It seemed as if the old oak were suddenly drawing in the limb upon which she stood, just as a turtle draws in its long neck. She noticed, too, for the first time, a hole in the trunk--a very ordinary knot-hole, she would have said a moment before--which was growing bigger and bigger as she approached. Unless, perhaps, she, herself, was shrinking smaller and smaller. Suddenly, and exactly as if she did it on purpose--although she tried her best not to do it--Priscilla raised her two hands over her head and dived right through the knot-hole, just grazing the tip of her nose as she went in. Indeed, if her nose had been the least bit longer, or had stuck straight out from her face, like some people’s noses, instead of having its own neat upward curve, it would have been badly nipped. Of course, though, Priscilla had no time just then to think about noses. Down she went, and around she went, and very queerly, indeed, she felt. Now, it isn’t quite easy to count the time while a person is falling, as I am sure any friend of yours who has dropped from the top of a church steeple will tell you if you ask him. To Priscilla it seemed as if she had been going just about as long as her little brother Halbert could sit still at the dinner table, when--puff, whist--and she had stopped. “Now, come right along and don’t talk back. That’s one thing the Hopolanthus will not stand. You can say anything you choose if he hasn’t spoken first, but--”