“Not robbed it, exactly,” said his mother, who had followed close after Julia, “but they have completely ruined it.  There are not a dozen plants left in the ground.”

Frank was so surprised that he could scarcely utter a word; and, hardly waiting to hear what his mother said, he hurried from the house toward the strawberry-patch.  It did, indeed, present a strange and desolate appearance.  The bed had covered nearly half an acre; and, so well had the Rangers performed their work, that but few plants were left standing.  The sight was enough to upset even Frank’s well-established patience, and he exclaimed,

“If I had the rascals that did this mischief, I could pay them for it, without troubling my conscience much.”

“You must tell Lee Powell, the next time you see him,” said Julia, who had followed him, “that he ought not to—­”

“Lee didn’t do it,” said Frank.

“What makes you think so?”

“See here,” said Frank, bending over a footprint in the soft earth; “the Hillers all go bare-foot, and these fellows wore boots.  I know who did it, as well as if I had seen them.  It was the work of Charles Morgan and a few of his particular friends.  They must have been very still about it, for Brave didn’t hear them.”

“I don’t see what object they had in doing it,” said Julia.

“I know what they did it for,” said Frank; “and if I ever catch—­But,” he added, checking himself, “there’s no use in grumbling about it; no amount of fretting will repair the damage.”

So saying, he led the way toward the house.

It did not take him long to don his working-suit, and, shouldering his hoe, he returned to the strawberry-bed, and, in less than an hour, the plants were all in the ground again.

CHAPTER VIII.

How to Spend the “Fourth.”

That evening, after supper, Frank retired to his room, and, settling himself in his comfortable armchair, was soon deeply interested in one of Bayard Taylor’s works.  While thus engaged, a light step was heard in the hall, and, afterward, a gentle rap at his door, and Julia came into the room.

“Now, Frank,” she began, “I don’t want you to read to-night.”

“Why not?” he inquired.

“Why, you know that day after to-morrow is the Fourth of July, and—­”

“And you haven’t got your fire-works yet?” interrupted Frank.

“That’s it, exactly.”

“Well,” said her brother, rising to put away his book, “then, I suppose, I shall have to go down to the village and get you some.  What do you want?”

“I want all the things that are written down on this paper.”

Frank took the paper and read, “Three packs of fire-crackers, four boxes of torpedoes, three Roman candles, half a dozen pin-wheels, and a dozen sky-rockets.”

“Whew!” said Frank, as he folded up the paper and put it into his pocket, “that’s what I should call going it strong!  Well, I’ll tell Mr. Sheldon [the store-keeper] to send up all the fire-works he has got.”