bad name and she was often punished for it; it is usually so.

One day, while Lan was away, Jill got free and joined her brother.
They broke into the little storehouse and rioted among the provisions.
They gorged themselves with the choicest sorts; and the common stuffs,
like flour, butter, and baking-powder, brought fifty miles on
horseback, were good enough only to be thrown about the ground or
rolled in. Jack had just torn open the last bag of flour, and Jill was
puzzling over a box of miner's dynamite, when the doorway darkened and
there stood Kellyan, a picture of amazement and wrath. Little Bears do
not know anything about pictures, but they have some acquaintance with
wrath. They seemed to know that they were sinning, or at least in
danger, and Jill sneaked, sulky and snuffy, into a dark corner, where
she glared defiantly at the hunter. Jack put his head on one side,
then, quite forgetful of all his misbehavior, he gave a delighted
grunt, and scuttling toward the man, he whined, jerked his nose, and
held up his sticky, greasy arms to be lifted and petted as though he
were the best little Bear in the world.

[Illustration: "JACK ... HELD UP HIS STICKY, GREASY ARMS"]

Alas, how likely we are to be taken at our own estimate! The scowl
faded from the hunter's brow as the cheeky and deplorable little Bear
began to climb his leg. "You little divil," he growled, "I'll break
your cussed neck"; but he did not. He lifted the nasty, sticky little
beast and fondled him as usual, while Jill, no worse--even more
excusable, because less trained--suffered all the terrors of his wrath
and was double-chained to the post, so as to have no further chance of
such ill-doing.