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“There was something you once told me about some sort of buildings?” she ventured, timidly, in a pause.

“The Crumpet Buildings. Yes, I sent my proposals, but have not heard from them yet; I don’t know that I ever shall. That is a large affair, rather. The name of the thing would be worth a good deal to me if I succeeded. It would give me a start, and—”

“Ough!” exclaimed Sharley. She had been sitting at his feet, with her face raised, and red eyes forgotten, when, splash! an icy stream of water came into her eyes, into her mouth, down her neck, up her sleeves. She gasped, and stood drenched.

“O, it’s only a rain-storm,” said Moppet, appearing on the scene with his empty dipper. “I got tired of sleeping. I dreamed about three giants. I didn’t like it. I wanted something to do. It’s only my rain-storm, and you needn’t mind it, you know.”

Dripping Sharley’s poor little temper, never of the strongest, quivered to its foundations. She took hold of Moppet without any observation, and shook him just about as hard as she could shake. When she came to her senses her mother was coming in at the gate, and Halcombe Dike was gone.

* * * * *

“I s’pose I’ve got to ‘tend to that hollering to-night,” said Moppet, with a gentle sigh.

This was at a quarter past seven. Nate and Methuse
lah were in bed. The baby was asleep. Moppet had thrown his shoes into the water-pitcher but twice, and run down stairs in his nightgown only four times that evening; and Sharley felt encouraged. Perhaps, after all, he would be still by half past seven; and by half past seven—If Halcombe Dike did not come to-night, something was the matter. Sharley decided this with a sharp little nod.

She had devoted herself to Moppet with politic punctiliousness. Would he lie at his lazy length, with his feet on her clean petticoat, while she bent and puzzled over his knotted shoestrings? Very well. Did he signify a desire to pull her hair down and tickle her till she gasped? She was at his service. Should he insist upon being lulled to slumber by the recounted adventures of Old Mother Hubbard, Red Riding-Hood, and Tommy Tucker? Not those exactly, it being thought proper to keep him in a theologic mood of mind till after sundown, but he should have David and Goliath and Moses in the bulrushes with pleasure; then Moses and Goliath and David again; after that, David and Goliath and Moses, by way of variety. She conducted every Scriptural dog and horse of her acquaintance entirely round the globe in a series of somewhat apocryphal adventures. She ransacked her memory for biblical boys, but these met with small favor. “Pooh! they weren’t any good! They couldn’t play stick-knife and pitch-in. Besides, they all died. Besides, they weren’t any great shakes. Jack the Giant-Killer was worth a dozen of ’em, sir! Now tell it all over again, or else I won’t say my prayers till next winter!”

After some delicate plotting, Sharley manoeuvred him through “Now I lay me,” and tucked him up, and undertook a little Sunday-night catechizing, conscientiously enough.

“Has Moppet been a good boy to-day?”

“Well, that’s a pretty question! Course I have!”

“But have you had any good thoughts, dear, you know?”

“O yes, lots of ’em! been thinking about Blessingham.”

“Who? O, Absalom!”

“O yes, I’ve been thinking about Blessingham, you know; how he must have looked dreadful funny hanging up there onto his hair, with all the darts ‘n things stickin’ into him! Wouldn’t you like to seen him! No, you needn’t go off, ’cause I ain’t begun to be asleep yet.”