In went the boys.  Over the stile, up the paths, clear on toward the front portico.  They separated into little groups and began to cut their flowers, the Eliots’ flowers, all the Eliots in Europe, and not a soul on hand to save their property.

Suddenly the boys were arrested and paralyzed with fright.

An immense form leaped from behind the house and a deep-throated, baying bark resounded in a threatening roar.  Juno, Squire Eliot’s famous mastiff, the one that had taken a prize at the dog show, bounded out toward the marauders.  They turned to fly, when a stern voice bade them stop.

“You young rapscallions!  You trespassers!  You rascals!  Stop this instant or I’ll thrash every one of you!  Humph!” said Squire Eliot, brandishing his cane, as the boys stopped and tremblingly came forward.  “This is how my neighbors’ sons treat my property when I’m away.  Line up there against the fence, every one of you. Charge, Juno! Charge, good dog!”

Squire Eliot looked keenly at the boys, every one of whom he knew.

“Solomon’s methods are out of fashion,” he said, “and if I send you boys home the chances are that your fathers won’t whip you as you deserve to be whipped, so I’ll do the job myself.  Fortunate thing I happened to change my plans and come home for the summer, instead of going away as I expected.  I heard there was a plan of this sort on foot, but I didn’t believe it till I overheard the whole thing talked of in the village this afternoon.  Well, boys, I’ll settle with you once for all, and then I’ll forgive you, but you’ve got to pay the penalty first.  Frank, hold out your hand.”

But just then there was an interruption.  Lights appeared in the windows and a dainty little lady came upon the scene.  The boys knew Grandmother Eliot, who wore her seventy years with right queenly grace, and never failed to have a kind word for man, woman and child in the old home.

“Eugene,” she called to the Squire, imperatively, “I can’t allow this, my son.  The boys have been punished enough.  Their fault was in not seeing that you cannot do evil that good may come.  Let every one of these young gentlemen come here to me.  I want to talk with them.”

Now it is probable that most of the boys would have preferred a sharp blow or two from the Squire’s cane to a reproof from his gentle old mother, whose creed led her to heap coals of fire on the heads of those who did wrong.  But they had no choice.  There was no help for it.  They had to go up, shears, baskets and all, and let old Lady Eliot talk to them; and then, as they were going away, who should come out but a white-capped maid, with cake and lemonade, to treat the young depredators to refreshments.

“There’s only one fellow in our class who deserves cake and lemonade,” exclaimed Frank, “and he isn’t here.  We’ve all treated him meaner than dirt.  We’ve been horrid to him, because he wouldn’t join us in this.  Now he’s out of this scrape and we’re in.”