* * * * *

Monday morning came and went,—­Monday afternoon also; it was now two o’clock, and to my surprise and disappointment Patsy had not appeared.  The new chair with its pretty red cushion stood expectant but empty.  Helen had put a coat of shellac on poor Johnny Cass’s table, freshened up its squared top with new lines of red paint, and placed a little silver vase of flowers on it.  Our Lady Bountiful had come in to pay for the chair and see the boy, but alas! there was no boy to see.  The children were all ready for him.  They knew that he was a sick boy, like Johnny Cass, tired, and not able to run and jump, and that they must be good to him as they had been to Johnny.  This was the idea of the majority; but I do not deny that there was a small minority which professed no interest and promised no virtue.  Our four walls contained a miniature world,—­a world with its best foot forward, too, but it was not heaven.

At quarter past two I went into Helen’s little room, where she was drawing exquisite illustrations on a blackboard for next day’s “morning talk.”

“Helen, the children say that a family of Kennetts live at 32 Anna Street, and I am going to see why Patsy didn’t come.  Oh yes, I know that there are boys enough without running after them, but we must have this particular boy, whether he wants to come or not, for he is sui generis.  He shall sit on that cushion

       “’And sew a fine seam,
     And feast upon strawberries,
       Sugar and cream!’”

“I think a taste for martyrdom is just as difficult to eradicate from the system as a taste for blood,” Helen remarked whimsically.  “Very well, run on and I’ll ‘receive’ in your absence.  I could say with Antony, ‘Lend me your ears,’ for I shall need them.  Have you any commands?”

“Just a few.  Please tell Paulina Strozynski’s big brother that he must call for her earlier, and not leave her sitting on the steps so long.  Tell Mrs. Hickok that if she sends us another child whom she knows to be down with the chicken-pox, we won’t take in her two youngest when they’re old enough.  Don’t give Mrs. Slamberg any aprons.  She returned the little undershirts and drawers that I sent her by Julie, and said ’if it was all the same to me, she’d rather have something that would make a little more show!’ And—­oh yes, do see if you can find Jacob Shubener’s hat; he is crying down in the yard, and doesn’t dare go home without it.”

“Very well.  Four cases.  Strozynski—­steps—­cruelty.  Hickok—­chicken-pox—­ingratitude.  Slamberg—­aprons—­vanity.  Shubener—­hat—­carelessness.  Oh that I could fasten Jacob’s hat to his ear by a steel chain!  Has he looked in the sink?”

“Yes.”

“Ash-barrel?”

“Certainly.”

“Up in the pepper-tree?”

“Of course.”