she muttered. Then she reached beneath him and
snatched out the pillow on which he lay, the baby's
little bed. She gave it a swift toss over the fringe
of wayside bushes into a field. "Aunt Laura's nice
embroidered pillow," said she. "Make yourself just
as flat as you can, Johnny Trumbull."

Johnny obeyed, but he was obliged to double him-
self up like a jack-knife. However, there was no
sign of him visible when the two buggies drew up.
There stood a pale and frightened little girl, with
a baby-carriage canopied with rose and lace and
heaped up with rosy and lacy coverlets, presumably
sheltering a sleeping infant. Lily was a very keen
little girl. She had sense enough not to run. The
two men, at the sight of Aunt Janet prostrate in the
road, leaped out of their buggies. The doctor's
horse stood still; the policeman's trotted away, to
Lily's great relief. She could not imagine Johnny's
own father haling him away to state prison and
the stern Arm of Justice. She stood the fire of
bewildered questions in the best and safest fashion.
She wept bitterly, and her tears were not assumed.
Poor little Lily was all of a sudden crushed under
the weight of facts. There was Aunt Janet, she had
no doubt, killed by her own nephew, and she was
hiding the guilty murderer. She had visions of
state prison for herself. She watched fearfully while
the two men bent over the prostrate woman, who
very soon began to sputter and gasp and try to sit