Betty puckered up her face to cry, but burst out laughing in spite of her woe, “It was so funny to see him spin round and walk on his head!  I wish he’d do it all over again; don’t you?”

“Yes; but I hate him just the same.  I wonder what ma will say when—­why! why!”—­and Bab stopped short in the arch, with her eyes as round and almost as large as the blue saucers on the tea-tray.

“What is it? oh, what is it?” cried Betty, all ready to run away if any new terror appeared.

“Look! there! it’s come back!” said Bab in an awe-stricken whisper, pointing to the table.

Betty did look and her eyes opened even wider,—­as well they might,—­for there, just where they first put it, was the lost cake, unhurt, unchanged, except that the big B. had coasted a little further down the gingerbread hill.

CHAPTER II.

WHERE THEY FOUND HIS MASTER.

Neither spoke for a minute, astonishment being too great for words; then, as by one impulse, both stole up and touched the cake with a timid little finger, quite prepared to see it fly away in some mysterious and startling manner.  It remained sitting tranquilly in the basket, however, and the children drew a long breath of relief, for, though they did not believe in fairies, the late performances did seem rather like witchcraft.

“The dog didn’t eat it!”

“Sally didn’t take it!”

“How do you know?”

“She never would have put it back.”

“Who did?”

“Can’t tell, but I forgive ’em.”

“What shall we do now?” asked Betty, feeling as if it would be very difficult to settle down to a quiet tea-party after such unusual excitement.

“Eat that cake up just as fast as ever we can,” and Bab divided the contested delicacy with one chop of the big knife, bound to make sure of her own share at all events.

It did not take long, for they washed it down with sips of milk and ate as fast as possible, glancing round all the while to see if the queer dog was coming again.

“There! now I’d like to see any one take my cake away,” said Bab, defiantly crunching her half of the pie-crust B.

“Or mine either,” coughed Betty, choking over a raisin that wouldn’t go down in a hurry.

“We might as well clear up, and play there had been an earthquake,” suggested Bab, feeling that some such convulsion of nature was needed to explain satisfactorily the demoralized condition of her family.

“That will be splendid.  My poor Linda was knocked right over on her nose.  Darlin’ child, come to your mother and be fixed,” purred Betty, lifting the fallen idol from a grove of chickweed, and tenderly brushing the dirt from Belinda’s heroically smiling face.

“She’ll have croup to-night as sure as the world.  We’d better make up some squills out of this sugar and water,” said Bab, who dearly loved to dose the dollies all round.