An instant later he received a swinging blow above the ear that sent him sprawling at full length upon the sidewalk, and a quiet voice said: 

“Pardon me, ladies; it seemed necessary.”

All three at once recognized the supposed tramp whom they had seen the morning of their arrival, but whom Uncle John had reported to be one of the bookkeepers at the paper mill.  The young fellow had no time to say more, for the downfall of their comrade brought a shout of rage from the group of workmen, numbering nearly a dozen, and with one accord they rushed upon the man who had dared champion the defenseless girls.

Beth managed to open the door of the office, through which Patsy and Louise slipped instantly, but the younger girl, always cool in emergencies, held the door ajar while she cried to the young man: 

“Quick, sir—­come inside!”

Really, he had no time to obey, just then.  With his back to the door he drove his fists at his assailants in a dogged, persistent way that felled three more of them before the others drew away from his stalwart bows.  By that time Larry and Fitzgerald, who had been summoned by Louise, rushed from the office armed with iron bars caught up at random, both eager for a fight.  The workmen, seeing the reinforcements, beat a retreat, carrying their sadly pommeled comrades with them, but their insulting language was not restricted until they had passed out of hearing.

Then the young man turned, bowed gravely to the girls, who had now ventured forth again, and without waiting to receive their thanks marched calmly down the street.

When Arthur reached home with the girls, Mr. Merrick was very indignant at his report of the adventure.  He denounced Skeelty in unmeasured terms and declared he would find a way to protect Millville from further invasion by these rough and drunken workmen.

There was no Sunday paper, so the girlish editors found the morrow a veritable day of rest.  They all drove to Hooker’s Falls to church and returned to find that old Nora had prepared a fine chicken dinner for them.  Patsy had invited Hetty Hewitt, in whom she was now greatly interested, to dine with them, and to the astonishment of all the artist walked over to the farm arrayed in a new gown, having discarded the disreputable costume in which she had formerly appeared.  The new dress was not in the best of taste and its loud checks made dainty Louise shudder, but somehow Hetty seemed far more feminine than before, and she had, moreover, washed herself carefully and tried to arrange her rebellious hair.

“This place is doing me good,” she confided to her girl employers, after dinner, when they were seated in a group upon the lawn.  “I’m getting over my nervousness, and although I haven’t drank a drop stronger than water since I arrived.  I feel a new sort of energy coursing through my veins.  Also I eat like a trooper—­not at night, as I used to, but at regular mealtime.  And I’m behaving quite like a lady.  Do you know, I wouldn’t be surprised to find it just as amusing to be respectable as to—­to be—­the other thing?”