Rhoda Davis, the cook, coming out just then with the butter-box, Royal thrust it hastily into the back of the wagon, and without another word or glance at the sisters, drove off at a headlong pace.

“Well, I never saw such a tempery boy as that in my life,” said Elsie.  “A boy that can’t take a joke I don’t think is much of a boy.”

“Them Purcels allers was pretty peppery, and I guess they’re more’n ever so now,” said Rhoda.

“Why?” asked Marge.

“Why?  Because they used to be the richest farmers about here.  They owned pretty nigh all Lime Ridge once.  Now they hain’t got nothin’ but that little Ridge farm.  It’s a stony little place, and how they manage to get a livin’ off of it beats me.”

“How’d they happen to lose so much?”

“Oh, the boy’s father took to spekerlatin’, and then some banks they had money in bust up.”

“Well, he needn’t fly up at everything because he isn’t rich,” said Elsie.  “That’s regular cry-baby fashion.  He’s a royal purple cry-baby, that’s what he is, and I mean to call him that, see if I don’t;” and Elsie laughed in high glee as this mischievous idea struck her.  And while she and her sister were discussing Royal and his temper, Royal was discussing that very temper with himself.

“To think of my being such a fool as to show mad before those girls.  I’m a regular sissy,” was his final conclusion as he drove down the road.

The next morning, bright and early, he was up at the Lloyds’ with two dozen fine big eggs.  “As handsome a lot of eggs as I ever see,” commented Rhoda, as she took them in.

“Are they going to color them all?” asked Royal.

“I s’pose so.  Here are some of their old ones.  They’ve been b’iled as hard as stones.  They’ll keep forever;” and Rhoda handed out of the open window a little basket of colored eggs.

“But some of these are painted,” said the boy, taking up an egg with a pattern of flowers on it.

“No, they ain’t; they’re jest colored in a dye-pot.  Them that looks as if they was painted were tied up in a bit of figgered calico and b’iled, and when they come out of the b’iling they took the calico off, and there was the figgers set on the eggs.  See?”

“Yes, I see;” and Royal turned the egg round thoughtfully for a moment, then suddenly put it down, and started off towards his wagon on a run.

“Land sakes!” called out Rhoda; “what’s come to you all at once to set off like that?”

“Muskrats!” shouted Royal, with a laugh as he jumped into the wagon.

“Ben a-settin’ traps for ’em, eh?”

Royal nodded as he went rattling down the driveway.

“Did Royal Purple bring the eggs?” asked Elsie Lloyd, a little later.

“His name ain’t Purple; it’s Purcel,” corrected Rhoda, innocently.

Elsie giggled.  “Well, did Royal Purcel bring the eggs?” she asked.

“Yes, there they be.”