into the wood and found, after much careful search, some Indian
Pipes of an exquisite perfection. These fragile, curious things
were Marjorie's great delight, and she carried them carefully home
for her Memory Book.

"They won't be very satisfactory as mementoes," warned Uncle
Steve, "for they will turn brown and lose their fair, white
beauty."

Marjorie looked regretful, but an inspiration came to her.

"I'll tell you what, Uncle Steve, I'll get Stella to draw them in
my book and paint them. She's so clever at copying flowers, and
I'm sure she can do it."

"Let her try it, then, and if she doesn't succeed I'll photograph
them for you, so you'll have at least a hint of the lovely
things."

Hand in hand they walked through the wood, spying new beauties
here and there. Sometimes they sat on a fallen log to rest a bit
or to discuss some new marvel in Nature's kingdom.

At last, as the sun was sinking low in the west, they left the
wood, untied old Betsy, who was patiently waiting for them, and
jogged along homeward.

"Punishment is a strange thing," said Marjorie to Grandma, as they
were having their little "twilight talk" that evening, before the
child went to bed.