“Meg and Bobby went home at least half an hour ago,” he said kindly.

“We came for my grasshopper,” explained Twaddles, and that brought out the whole story.

“Dot,” remarked Twaddles thoughtfully when they were walking home, “it wouldn’t be so bad being bad if you didn’t have to tell about it, would it?”

Dot understood at once.

“N—­o,” she drawled slowly.  “But we’d feel worse if we never did tell.”

Twaddles was so glad to get his grasshopper back that he made it hop all the way home.  And at home the twins found Miss Florence, the Oak Hill dressmaker, talking with Mother Blossom.

“I’ll come to-morrow, then,” Miss Florence was saying as Dot and Twaddles came up the path.  “Here’s Dot now.  Come here, child, while I measure your skirt.  Did you know you were going to have a new dress to wear to Apple Tree Island?”

“I hope it’s pink,” said Dot with interest.  “Pink with a white organdie sash.  And I can wear my white shoes and stockings.”

“When can we begin to pack?” demanded the practical Bobby.  “We can do most of that for you, Mother.”

Miss Florence folded up her measure.

“Your mother’s going to have her hands full,” she observed, rising.  “Well, it’s most supper time and I must run.  I’ll be over early in the morning, Mrs. Blossom.  Here comes Mr. Blossom now.”

“Tell us the story!” cried the four little Blossoms, falling upon their father before he had brought the car quite to a stop.  “Tell us the story about Apple Tree Island, Daddy!  Please!”

“With fresh asparagus for supper?” asked Father Blossom in great surprise.  “I couldn’t think of it!  After supper you shall hear all about the island, chicks.”

CHAPTER V

APPLE TREE ISLAND

“Now tell us, Daddy,” begged Dot when, supper over, they were gathered about the fireplace in the living room.  “Tell us, ’fore Twaddles and I have to go to bed.”

“It isn’t such a long story,” began Father Blossom.  “You can hear it all before you have to go to bed.  I don’t know whether Mother has told you, but when Bobby was a baby we spent a summer on Apple Tree Island.”

“It’s funny I don’t seem to remember much about it,” remarked Bobby anxiously.

“Well, old man, not so funny considering that you were about eight months old,” returned his father with a smile.  “We rented a rather pretty cottage very near the spot where Mr. Winthrop, a year or so later, built his bungalow.  Your mother started off for a walk one day with Bobby, and she walked too far; he was heavy for a baby, and she should never have tried to carry him.  But she did, and she walked as far as the other end of the island before her strength gave out.  Then what do you suppose she did, Meg?”

Meg looked serious.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.  “Maybe she cried?”