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“The air smells fresh,” he said.

“It’s a beautiful day, I know,” said little Joan. “I wish Mother had allowed us to sit on the doorstep. We could have taken care of the house—-“

“Just as well,” said So-so.

Little Joan came to smell the air at the keyhole, and, as So-so had said, it smelt very fresh. Besides, one could see from the window how fine the evening was.

“It’s not exactly what Mother told us to do,” said Joan, “but I do believe—-“

“It would do just as well,” said So-so.

By-and-bye little Joan unfastened the bar, and opened the door, and she and the doll and So-so went out and sat on the doorstep.

Not a stranger was to be seen. The sun shone delightfully. An evening sun, and not too hot. All day it had been ripening the corn in the field close by, and this glowed and waved in the breeze.

“It does just as well, and better,” said little Joan, “for if anyone comes we can see him coming up the field-path.”

“Just so,” said So-so, blinking in the sunshine.

Suddenly Joan jumped up.

“Oh!” cried she, “there’s a bird, a big bird. Dear So-so, can you see him? I can’t, because of the sun. What a queer noise he makes. Crake! crake! Oh, I can see him now! He is not flying, he is running, and he has gone into the corn. I do wish I were in the corn, I would catch him, and put him in a cage.”

“I’ll catch him,” said So-so, and he put up his tail, and started off.

“No, no!” cried Joan. “You are not to go. You must stay and take care of the house, and bark if anyone comes.”

“You could scream, and that would do just as well,” replied So-so, with his tail still up.

“No, it wouldn’t,” cried little Joan.

“Yes, it would,” reiterated So-so.

Whilst they were bickering, an old woman came up to the door; she had a brown face, and black hair, and a very old red cloak.

“Good evening, my little dear,” said she. “Are you all at home this fine evening?”

“Only three of us,” said Joan; “I, and my doll, and So-so. Mother has gone to the town on business, and we are taking care of the house, but So-so wants to go after the bird we saw run into the corn.”

“Was it a pretty bird, my little dear?” asked the old woman.

“It was a very curious one,” said Joan, “and I should like to go after it myself, but we can’t leave the house.”

“Dear, dear! Is there no neighbor would sit on the doorstep for you and keep the house till you just slip down to the field after the curious bird?” said the old woman.

“I’m afraid not,” said little Joan. “Old Martha, our neighbor, is now bedridden. Of course, if she had been able to mind the house instead of us, it would have done just as well.”

“I have some distance to go this evening,” said the old woman, “but I do not object to a few minutes’ rest, and sooner than that you should lose the bird I will sit on the doorstep to oblige you, while you run down to the cornfield.”

“But can you bark if anyone comes?” asked little Joan. “For if you can’t, So-so must stay with you.”

“I can call you and the dog if I see anyone coming, and that will do just as well,” said the old woman.

“So it will,” replied little Joan, and off she ran to the cornfield, where, for that matter, So-so had run before her, and was bounding and barking and springing among the wheat-stalks.

They did not catch the bird, though they stayed longer than they had intended, and though So-so seemed to know more about hunting than was supposed.

“I daresay Mother has come home,” said little Joan, as they went back up the field-path. “I hope she won’t think we ought to have stayed in the house.”

“It was taken care of,” said So-so, and “that must do just as well.”

When they reached the house, the widow had not come home.

But the old woman had gone, and she had taken the quilted petticoat and the duffle cloak, and the plumcake from the top shelf away with her; and no more was ever heard of any of the lot.

* * * * *

“For the future, my child,” said the widow, “I hope you will always do just as you are told, whatever So-so may say.”

“I will, Mother,” said little Joan. (And she did.) But the house-dog sat and blinked. He dared not speak, he was in disgrace.

I do not feel quite sure about So-so. Wild dogs often amend their ways far on this side of the gallows, and the Faithful sometimes fall; but when anyone begins by being only So-so, he is very apt to be So-so to the end. So-sos so seldom change.

But this one was very soft and nice, and he got no cake that tea-time. On the whole we will hope that he lived to be a Good Dog ever after.