scattering the hens that came sidling back with squawks of inquiring
temerity.

When next Emmy came for water, the old woman took her by the hand in
silence and led her into the dim meat-cellar, a half-basement with one low
window level with the grass. There was the pail, safe hidden behind the
soft-soap barrel.

"I had to hide it from your pa," Becky whispered. "Don't you never let him
know you're afraid o' the well-water. He drunk it when he was a little
boy. He don't believe in the snakes. But _there wa'n't none then_. It's
when water gets old and rotten. You can believe what Becky says. _She_
knows! But you mustn't ever tell. Your father 'd be as mad as fire if he
knowed I said anything about snakes. He'd send me right away, and some
strange woman would come, and maybe she'd whip Emmy. Emmy want Becky to
go?" Sobs, and little arms clinging wildly to Becky's aproned skirts. "No,
no! Well, she ain't goin'. But Emmy mustn't tell tales or she might have
to. Tattlers are wicked anyway. 'Telltale tit! Your tongue shall be slit,
and all the little dogs'--There! run now! There's your poppy. Don't you
never,--never!"

Emmy let her eyes be wiped, and with one long, solemn, secret look of awed
intelligence she ran out to meet her father. She did not love him, and the
smile with which she met him was no new lesson in diplomacy. But her first
secret from him lay deep in the beautiful eyes, her mother's eyes, as she
raised them to his.

"Ain't that wonderful!" said Becky, with a satisfied sigh, watching her.
"Safe as a jug! An' she not five years old!" For vital reasons she had
taught the child an ugly lesson. Such lessons were common enough in her