Roast veal, potatoes, beans and lettuce disappeared like mist, and before they arose from the table she said:  “Boys, is your hunger entirely satisfied?”

“Perfectly satisfied!” was the unanimous response.

“Oh, what a pity!” she said, as if reflecting.

“Why a pity, Aunt Fanny?” asked Fritz.

“Because I have a basket of fine ripe cherries in the cupboard which I intended for dessert.  But as you are satisfied, I suppose we must wait for another time.”

The young guests looked crestfallen, and for a time were silent; then Franz came to the rescue with the right word.

“Cherries,” he remarked, “have so much juice that I do not know that they could be called food.  Instead, I would say that they are more like drink.”

“Franz, you are a born lawyer,” laughed Aunt Fanny.  “You certainly deserve a fee for that brilliant opinion.  As you say that you are satisfied that you have sufficient food, you may bring in a fresh drink in the shape of ripe, red cherries.”

Franz was not slow to obey, and soon four heaps of cherry stones proved that the new drink was appreciated.

“Now could you enjoy another dessert?” asked Aunt Fanny, smilingly.  “One that you will appreciate quite as much as the red cherries?  Look!” and she held up a letter and two postals.

“Oh, please, please!  They bring us news from home,” cried the boys in a breath; and Fritz asked who was to get the letter.

“It is for Paul, and you and Franz get the postals.  Now you can read them while I take the dishes from the table.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Franz, “they have gathered the summer pears, and I was not there to help.  But all are well, and they send love to Aunt Steiner and thank her for her goodness to me.  Boys, what have you in yours?”

“All are well,” responded Fritz, “but father says I should not have brought Pixy.  He says that he will not only be a trouble to us and to Aunt Fanny, but it will do the dog no good.”

“I have never thought to ask where you got Pixy,” remarked his aunt, “perhaps you can tell me, Fritz.”

“Yes, aunt.  He belonged to a neighbor who did not want him so gave him away.  One cold day in winter the poor dog came all the way back, half starved, and scratched at our neighbor’s door; but the hard-hearted man threw a bucket of cold water upon him and he ran to our door.  Father took him in, fed and dried him, and the first week kept saying, ’If I only knew of some one who wants a good, gentle, young dog.’  After another week he said, ’I will keep the dog.  I could not bear to give him to some one that might not be kind to him.’  So we kept him and named him Pixy, which father said was another name for fairy.  I hope nothing will happen to him on this journey, for father would be so sorry.”

“We will all care for him, that nothing may happen,” said his aunt, cheerfully.

“Aunt Fanny, when I write home, will you write a line in my letter and say that you will see that nothing happens to Pixy?”