“I don’t know,” I replied; “she’s gone with her husband on a visit, and I’ve been silly enough to promise to give an eye to the place while they’re away.”

“Why, how delightful!” said Miss Mayton.  “Such horses!  Such flowers!  Such a cook!”

“And such children!” said I, glaring at the Imps, and rescuing my handkerchief from Toddie.

“Why, they’re the best children in the world!  Helen told me so.  Children will be children, you know.  I don’t wish to give any hints, but at Mrs. Clarkson’s, where we’re boarding, there’s not a flower in the whole garden.  I break the Tenth Commandment every time I pass Colonel Lawrence’s.  Good-bye.”

“Of course you’ll call,” said Miss Mayton, as the carriage started; “it’s dreadfully stupid here.  No men, except on Sundays.”

I bowed assent.  In the contemplation of all the shy possibilities my short chat with Miss Mayton had suggested, I had quite forgotten my dusty clothing and the two little living causes thereof.

II.—­The Fate of a Bouquet

Next morning at breakfast Toddie remarked, “Ocken Hawwy, darsh an awfoo funny chunt upstairs.  I show it to you after brepspup.”

“Toddie’s a silly little boy,” said Budge, “he always says brepspup for brekbux.”

“Oh, what does he mean by chunt, Budge?”

“I guess he means trunk,” replied my elder nephew.

Recollections of my childish delight in rummaging an old trunk caused me to smile sympathetically at Toddie, to his great delight.

A direful thought struck me.  I dashed upstairs.  Yes, he did mean my trunk.  While a campaigner, I had learned to reduce packing to an exact science.  Now, if I had an atom of pride in me, I might have glorified myself, for it certainly seemed as if the heap upon the floor could never have come out of one single trunk.

In the lid of my dressing-case lay my dress-coat, tightly rolled up.  Snatching it up, with a violent exclamation, there dropped from it—­one of these infernal dolls.  A howl resounded from the doorway.

“You tookted my dolly out of her k’adle—­want to wock my dolly oo-ee-ee!”

I called the girl, and asked where the key was that locked the door between my room and the children’s.

“Please sir, Toddie threw it down the well.”

I removed the lock and told the coachman to get ready at once to drive to Paterson, where the nearest locksmith lived, by the hill road, one of the most beautiful roads in America.

Away went the horses, and up rose a piercing shriek and a terrible roar.  I looked out hastily, only to see Budge and Toddie running after the carriage and crying pitifully.  The driver stopped of his own accord—­he seemed to know the children’s ways and their results—­and I helped them in, meekly hoping the eye of Providence was upon me.

That afternoon I devoted myself to making a bouquet for Miss Mayton, and a most delightful occupation I found it.