"Do you belong to a circus?" cried Elsie.

"No; wish I did. I belong to Royal."

"Who is Royal?"

"Who is Royal?" repeated the child, making a cunning, impudent face at
her.

"He means me. My name is Royal,--Royal Purcel; and he," nodding towards
the child, "is my brother."

"Royal Purcel! _What_ a funny name! It sounds--"

"Don't, Elsie," remonstrated Marge.

"It sounds just like Royal Purple," giggled Elsie, regardless of her
sister's remonstrance.

Rhoda Davis, the cook, coming out just then with the butter-box, Royal
thrust it hastily into the back of the wagon, and without another word
or glance at the sisters, drove off at a headlong pace.

"Well, I never saw such a tempery boy as that in my life," said Elsie.
"A boy that can't take a joke I don't think is much of a boy."

"Them Purcels allers was pretty peppery, and I guess they're more'n
ever so now," said Rhoda.

"Why?" asked Marge.