no bigger than you, Vesta Philbrook. Ah! many's the time I played
it with my sister Salome, and she died just about your age."

"Well, Mrs. Lankton," said Hildegarde, encouragingly.

"Well? oh, bless you! no, dearie! She was terrible sick! that was
why she died. Oh, my, yes! She had dyspepsy right along, suffered
everything with it, yet 'twas croup that got her at last. Ah!
there's never any child knows when croup 'll get her; girl NOR
boy!"

Hildegarde began to feel as if she must scream, or stamp her foot,
or do some other impossible thing.

"Mrs. Lankton," she said, gravely, "I am sure Auntie has the
kettle on, and you will be the better for your tea, so will you
not tell us as quickly as you can, please, about the game? The
children are waiting, you see, to go on with their play."

"Jest what I was going to say, dear," cried Mrs. Lankton. "Let 'em
play, I says, while they can, I says; for its soon enough they get
the play squenched out of 'em, if you'll excuse the expression,
Miss Henfeather."

At this apostrophe, delivered with mournful intensity, Bell
retreated hastily behind a post of the veranda, and even Susan
Aurora Bulger giggled faintly, with her apron in her mouth.

Hildegarde was silent, and tried the effect of gazing severely at
the widow, apparently with some success, for after a pause of