upon the gate and rest while waiting for Ben, who had gone nutting with
a party of boys. When they played house, Bab was always the father, and
went hunting or fishing with great energy and success, bringing home all
sorts of game, from elephants and crocodiles to humming-birds and
minnows. Betty was the mother, and a most notable little housewife,
always mixing up imaginary delicacies with sand and dirt in old pans and
broken china, which she baked in an oven of her own construction.

Both had worked hard that day, and were glad to retire to their favorite
lounging-place, where Bab was happy trying to walk across the wide top
bar without falling off, and Betty enjoyed slow, luxurious swings while
her sister was recovering from her tumbles. On this occasion, having
indulged their respective tastes, they paused for a brief interval of
conversation, sitting side by side on the gate like a pair of plump gray
chickens gone to roost.

"Don't you hope Ben will get his bag full? We shall have such fun eating
nuts evenings," observed Bab, wrapping her arms in her apron, for it was
October now, and the air was growing keen.

"Yes, and Ma says we may boil some in our little kettles. Ben promised
we should have half," answered Betty, still intent on her cookery.

"I shall save some of mine for Thorny."

"I shall keep lots of mine for Miss Celia."

"Doesn't it seem more than two weeks since she went away?"

"I wonder what she'll bring us."