“Yes’m,” said Mother Brace meekly, “but where would they get the three beds?”

“Why, I suppose they sleep on something now, though probably it wouldn’t fit our clean barn; that’s a fact.”

For a moment Gerry looked crestfallen.  Then she brightened again.

“Well, I can think that out, too, seeing I thought of the barn.  The question is, mother, would you be willing to have them come!”

There was silence on the porch for a few minutes while Mother Brace watched the sunset over beyond the hills.

“It looks like the gates of the celestial city,” she said at last, “where there are homes for everybody.  Yes, Gerry, dear, I’d be willing to have them come, if there’s anyway of fixing it.”

Gerry squeezed the work-roughened hand that had slipped into hers.

“You blessed!  Of course, I knew you would.  Mother, I’m going to Aunt Serinda about the beds.”

“Your Aunt Serinda?” Mother Brace gasped again.  “Why, Gerry!”

“Yes’m,” repeated Gerry.  “I’m going to Aunt Serinda.  There is no sense in having a garret full of old furniture when there’s an empty barn just hungry for it.  If she hasn’t enough, I’ll go to Mrs. Squires.  I’ll take up a collection, mother, a missionary collection.”

“I’m afraid your Aunt Serinda will think—­” began Mother Brace faintly.

“Yes, I know she will think,” Gerry agreed.  “She will say, ’How perfectly ridiculous!’ But before I get through she will give me a bed and very likely a blanket.  I shall start out to-morrow morning and see what I can do.”

True to her word, the sun had not dried the dew from the grass that was rapidly growing green under its spring warmth before Gerry was on her way up the neat box-bordered walk at Aunt Serinda’s.

“The Jimsons!” sputtered that good woman when Gerry began to dilate upon their forlorn condition.  “Jimson weeds I call ’em.  Of all the shiftless, good-for-nothing lots!  They can’t be much worse off now old Jim’s gone.”

“No, ma’am,” said Gerry; “they don’t need to be.  They are going to be better off, Aunt Serinda.  They’re coming to live in our barn.  You know we never use it, and it’s a specially tight barn, with more windows than most.”

Aunt Serinda held up her hands in horror.

“In—­your—­barn?  How perfectly ridiculous!  Why, they’ll bring microbes enough to poison you all.  And they’ll run over everything.”

“I hope so,” said Gerry promptly.  “Little Jimson-weeds have to run somewhere.  It might better be over our good clean grass than down there in the centre where there’s mischief waiting to be done every minute.  They won’t bring any microbes, though, because I mean to have them burn up all their old things before they come, I’m taking up a collection this morning to furnish the barn.  You are going to give me a bed and some other things out of the attic, aren’t you, auntie?”

“Well, of all things!” Aunt Serinda stood with her hands on her hips, and stared at Gerry.  “If you aren’t the beat of any girl I ever saw!  I suppose you’d like to have me take down my kitchen stove for ’em, and send along the spring rocker, from the parlor, besides.”