secrets, and be permitted to put notes into the little post-offices they
were forever establishing in all sorts of hidden places. But they didn't
want Elsie, and used to tell her to "run away and play with the
children," which hurt her feelings very much. When she wouldn't run
away, I am sorry to say they ran away from her, which, as their legs
were longest, it was easy to do. Poor Elsie, left behind, would cry
bitter tears, and, as she was too proud to play much with Dorry and
John, her principal comfort was tracking the older ones about and
discovering their mysteries, especially the post-offices, which were her
greatest grievance. Her eyes were bright and quick as a bird's. She
would peep and peer, and follow and watch, till at last, in some odd,
unlikely place, the crotch of a tree, the middle of the asparagus bed,
or, perhaps, on the very top step of the scuttle ladder, she spied the
little paper box, with its load of notes, all ending with: "Be sure and
not let Elsie know." Then she would seize the box, and, marching up to
wherever the others were, she would throw it down, saying, defiantly:
"There's your old post-office!" but feeling all the time just like
crying. Poor little Elsie! In almost every big family, there is one of
these unmated, left-out children. Katy, who had the finest plans in the
world for being "heroic," and of use, never saw, as she drifted on her
heedless way, that here, in this lonely little sister, was the very
chance she wanted for being a comfort to somebody who needed comfort
very much. She never saw it, and Elsie's heavy heart went uncheered.

Dorry and Joanna sat on the two ends of the ridge-pole. Dorry was six
years old; a pale, pudgy boy, with rather a solemn face, and smears of
molasses on the sleeve of his jacket. Joanna, whom the children called
"John," and "Johnnie," was a square, splendid child, a year younger than
Dorry; she had big brave eyes, and a wide rosy mouth, which always
looked ready to laugh. These two were great friends, though Dorry seemed