It was nearly nine o'clock and quite dark when Timothy stole again to
the little gate of the White Farm. The feet that had traveled so
courageously over the mile walk to Squire Bean's had come back again
slowly and wearily; for it is one thing to be shod with the sandals of
hope, and quite another to tread upon the leaden soles of
disappointment.

He leaned upon the white picket gate listening to the chirp of the frogs
and looking at the fireflies as they hung their gleaming lamps here and
there in the tall grass. Then he crept round to the side door, to
implore the kind offices of the mediator before he entered the presence
of the judge whom he assumed to be sitting in awful state somewhere in
the front part of the house. He lifted the latch noiselessly and
entered. Oh horror! Miss Avilda herself was sprinkling clothes at the
great table on one side of the room. There was a moment of silence.

"He wouldn't have me," said Timothy simply, "he said I wasn't big enough
yet. I offered him Gay, too, but he didn't want her either, and if you
please, I would rather sleep on the sofa so as not to be any more
trouble."

"You won't do any such thing," responded Miss Vilda briskly. "You've
got a royal welcome this time sure, and I guess you can earn your
lodging fast enough. You hear that?" and she opened the door that led
into the upper part of the house.

A piercing shriek floated down into the kitchen, and another on the
heels of that, and then another. Every drop of blood in Timothy's spare