“Kind! who wouldn’t be kind to that darling little thing, I’d like to know?” snapped Mrs. Ramsdell. “But she’s grieving for all the folks she’s been used to, and trying not to let anybody know it. It isn’t that we’re such remarkable folks, but it’s because she’s such a loving little thing; that’s the reason of it.” “What do they mean by keeping her housed up so?” demanded Uncle Blodgett, sternly. “They’ll have her sick of a fever next thing we know. Out-doors has been the breath of her living and her joy. I guess what those folks need is somebody to make a few points clear to ’em. What was this Eleanor the child talks of, that she should be set up for a pattern? Wa’n’t she mortal like all the rest of us?” “Mrs. Manser says Miss Pomeroy thought she was perfection,” ventured Father Manser, as nobody else seemed prepared with an answer. “She used to talk with Polly about her, every day before she went, advising her what she’d better do--Mrs. Manser did.” “I’ll warrant she did,” said Uncle Blodgett, bitterly. “That’s the whole root of the trouble. Now, you mark my words, all of you women folks”--Uncle Blodgett evidently included poor Father Manser in his summing up--“I’m going to have speech with that Pomeroy woman before many more days have gone over my head, and I’m going to set a few things straight. As for having that child carry the weight of this whole establishment, leaks, ear-trumpets, shingles, and all on her mind, and try to live up to nobody knows what--I won’t stand it!” “What do you plan?” asked Mrs. Ramsdell, with unwonted respect. “I shall fare down to the village with Father here,” said Uncle Blodgett, indicating the object of his choice with a careless nod, “and if she doesn’t happen to drive in that morning, I shall foot it to Pomeroy Oaks. My legs are good for a little matter of three miles or so.” “It’s a good four miles, as I remember it,” muttered Mrs. Ramsdell. “Well, call it four, then,” roared Uncle Blodgett in a sudden fury. “Call it five or six or ten if you’ve a mind. My legs are good for it, I tell ye. And if I have to foot it there,” he added, turning quickly on poor Father Manser, “you may say to your wife I’ve gone a-visiting an old friend for the afternoon. If Polly Prentiss ain’t an old friend, I haven’t got one in this world.” Uncle Blodgett sat heavily down in his chair, exhausted by his unwonted outbreak, but Mrs. Ramsdell stepped over to him and held out her hand. “If I was five years younger,” said the old lady, whose age nobody knew, “I’d put on my bonnet and shawl and foot it with you!” [TO BE CONTINUED] A Novel Weapon In her interesting book, _A Woman Tenderfoot_, Mrs. Ernest Thompson-Seton gives a stirring account of her fight with a rattlesnake, in which she, the victor, was armed with a very novel weapon--a frying-pan.