tell you I feel as if I must."

"He's sick, Kentie," Old Tilly said next morning. "There's something the
matter with him, sure, or he wouldn't be so set. Don't you think he
LOOKS kind of pale-ish?"

"Pale-ish!" scoffed Kent.

"Well, something's up. Mother put him in my care, and I'm going to take
him home. I'd never forgive myself, and mother'd never forgive me, if
anything happened to Jot away from home. I'm sorry on your account,
Kentie."

"Oh, go ahead! I'm all right," rejoined Kent, cheerfully. "I'd just as
soon. We've had a jolly good time of it so far, and we can take the
rest of it out in going fishing or camping at home."

"Well, then we'll go right back home--on Jot's account. I feet as if I
must take him to mother."

Poor Jot! It was hard to be taken home that way, when all the while
wasn't he taking wounded Old Tilly home to mother? It was the only way
he had been able to work it out, lying awake and worrying over the torn
wrist. Something must be done to get Old Tilly home.

"I told the truth--I said I was keeping something back," thought Jot.
"I said I wasn't sick, didn't I? And Old Till's got to go home. The
doctor told me the sooner the better."

But it was a distinct sacrifice to Jot's pride to be "taken home to