Amy Blackford stopped knitting for a moment, the half-finished
sweater suspended inquiringly in the air, while she asked her
question and gazed about impatiently at her busy group of friends.

"It's your turn, anyhow, Mollie," she added, fingers flying and head
bent as she resumed her work. "You haven't read to us for five days."

"Oh, don't bother me," snapped the one addressed as Mollie. She was
black-haired and black-eyed, was Mollie Billette, with a little touch
of French blood in her veins that accounted for her restless vivacity
and sometimes peppery temper. "You've made me drop a stitch, Amy
Blackford, and if anybody else speaks to me for the next five
minutes, I'll eat 'em."

"Well, as long as you don't eat any more of my chocolates, I don't
care," remarked Grace Ford, lazily helping herself to one of the
threatened candies. "I had a full box this morning, and now look at
them."

"Haven't time to look at anything," returned Mollie crossly, fishing
in vain for the lost stitch. "If the poor soldiers depended upon the
sweaters you made, Grace, I'd feel sorry for them, I would indeed!"

"Oh, dear, girls, now what's the matter?"

Framed in the doorway of the cottage stood Betty Nelson, their adored
"Little Captain," fresh and sweet as the morning itself, smiling
around at them inquiringly.