“Keep away from Miss Putnam’s house and street,” commanded Daddy Morrison at the breakfast table the next morning.  “Don’t go past her house except when it is absolutely necessary.  We’re not going to have any more bickering over this matter.  Your mother and I believe you and that is all that is necessary.  I shall be seriously displeased if I find you are talking it over with outsiders, especially other children.”

Ralph and Dick had already taken their way to the station and now Daddy Morrison hurried to get his train.

“Why doesn’t he want us to talk about it?” asked Sister, puzzled.  “Couldn’t I tell Nellie Yarrow?”

“I wouldn’t,” counseled Mother Morrison.  “You see, dear, you can’t help feeling that Miss Putnam has been unfair and every time you tell what she has done you will make someone else think she is unfair, too.  Your friends will take your part, of course, and while you think Miss Putnam is decidedly ‘mean,’ she is acting right, according to her own ideas.  It is never best to talk much about a quarrel of any kind.”

Jimmie, who had been eating his breakfast in silence, rose and looked toward his mother.

“I suppose I have to work in that old garden?” he said aggrievedly.

“You know what your father said,” replied Mother Morrison.

Jimmie did not like to weed, and the Morrison garden, when it came his turn, was often sadly neglected.  He and Ralph and Dick were responsible for the care of the garden two weeks at a time during the growing season.

“Well, maybe if I stick at it this morning, I can go swimming this afternoon,” muttered Jimmie.  “Dad didn’t say the whole thing had to be weeded today, did he?”

“He wants the new heads of lettuce transplanted, and all the onions weeded,” answered Mother Morrison.  “You know you were asked to tend to those a week ago, Jimmie.”

Jimmie flung himself out of the house in rather a bad temper.  He did not like to transplant lettuce and the onions must be weeded by hand.  Other vegetables could be handled with a hoe, or the garden cultivator, but the eight long rows of new onions must be carefully done down on one’s hands and knees.

“Jimmie!” said a little voice at his elbow as he got the trowel and the wheelbarrow from the toolhouse.  “Jimmie?”

“Well, what do you want?” demanded Jimmie shortly.

“I’ll—­I’ll help you,” offered Sister timidly.

“You can’t,” said Jimmie.  “Last time you crammed the lettuce plants in so hard they died over night.”

“But I’ll bring the water for ’em, in the watering-pot, and I can weed onions—­I know how to do that,” insisted Sister humbly.

“I won’t need the watering-pot,” said Jimmie more graciously.  “I’ll use the hose on them all tonight.  I wonder if you could weed the onions?”

“Oh, yes!” Sister assured him eagerly.  “You watch me, Jimmie.”

She fell on her fat little knees, and began to pull the weeds from a long row of onions.