The small Cottons were playing in their back yard, and hailed Davy’s appearance with whoops of delight.  Pete, Tommy, Adolphus, and Mirabel Cotton were all alone.  Their mother and older sisters were away.  Dora was thankful Mirabel was there, at least.  She had been afraid she would be alone in a crowd of boys.  Mirabel was almost as bad as a boy—­she was so noisy and sunburned and reckless.  But at least she wore dresses.

“We’ve come to go fishing,” announced Davy.

“Whoop,” yelled the Cottons.  They rushed away to dig worms at once, Mirabel leading the van with a tin can.  Dora could have sat down and cried.  Oh, if only that hateful Frank Bell had never kissed her!  Then she could have defied Davy, and gone to her beloved Sunday School.

They dared not, of course, go fishing on the pond, where they would be seen by people going to church.  They had to resort to the brook in the woods behind the Cotton house.  But it was full of trout, and they had a glorious time that morning—­at least the Cottons certainly had, and Davy seemed to have it.  Not being entirely bereft of prudence, he had discarded boots and stockings and borrowed Tommy Cotton’s overalls.  Thus accoutered, bog and marsh and undergrowth had no terrors for him.  Dora was frankly and manifestly miserable.  She followed the others in their peregrinations from pool to pool, clasping her Bible and quarterly tightly and thinking with bitterness of soul of her beloved class where she should be sitting that very moment, before a teacher she adored.  Instead, here she was roaming the woods with those half-wild Cottons, trying to keep her boots clean and her pretty white dress free from rents and stains.  Mirabel had offered the loan of an apron but Dora had scornfully refused.

The trout bit as they always do on Sundays.  In an hour the transgressors had all the fish they wanted, so they returned to the house, much to Dora’s relief.  She sat primly on a hencoop in the yard while the others played an uproarious game of tag; and then they all climbed to the top of the pig-house roof and cut their initials on the saddleboard.  The flat-roofed henhouse and a pile of straw beneath gave Davy another inspiration.  They spent a splendid half hour climbing on the roof and diving off into the straw with whoops and yells.

But even unlawful pleasures must come to an end.  When the rumble of wheels over the pond bridge told that people were going home from church Davy knew they must go.  He discarded Tommy’s overalls, resumed his own rightful attire, and turned away from his string of trout with a sigh.  No use to think of taking them home.

“Well, hadn’t we a splendid time?” he demanded defiantly, as they went down the hill field.

“I hadn’t,” said Dora flatly.  “And I don’t believe you had—­really—­either,” she added, with a flash of insight that was not to be expected of her.

“I had so,” cried Davy, but in the voice of one who doth protest too much.  “No wonder you hadn’t—­just sitting there like a—­like a mule.”