“Polly saw her after that,” Mother Blossom reminded him.

“Yes, that’s so, she did,” agreed Father Blossom.  “She stopped there one afternoon and Aunt Polly tried to keep her over night; but she was anxious to begin her journey and would not even stay to supper.”

The hall clock struck eight.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Dot.  “Just as things get exciting we always have to go to bed!”

“That’s the whole story!” announced Father Blossom, pulling her down into his lap for a kiss.  “There’s no more to tell, chicken, if you should stay up till midnight to listen.  No one knows what became of the Harley family, and I believe their shack is slowly falling to pieces.  I haven’t been to the Island for two summers—­ not since Mrs. Harley went off, in fact.  And now don’t let Mother have to tell you twice what time it is if you want to be invited to ride in the front seat with me on the trip to Aunt Polly’s.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know where they went?” sleepily murmured Dot, toiling upstairs after Mother Blossom and Twaddles.  “Wouldn’t you, Mother?”

“Very much,” said Mother Blossom promptly.  “Mrs. Harley was so kind to me, always, and we liked the whole family.  I only hope she had relatives who could help her with the children.”

The next morning Miss Florence came with her needle and thread in the little leather case she always carried, and Dot, in the importance of being fitted for a new frock, quite forgot to envy Meg and Bobby, who hurried to school.

Father Blossom came home from the foundry early that afternoon, and when Dot and Twaddles heard him tinkering in the garage, they ran out to see what he was doing.

“What’s the little gate for, Daddy?” asked Twaddles.

“To keep the suitcases on the running board,” explained Father Blossom, busy attaching the “gate” to the car.

“Don’t we take a trunk?” Dot wanted to know, managing to tip over the box of screws.

“We’ll ship those by express,” explained Father Blossom.  “Look out, Dot, you’ll step in that can of grease next.  What’s that hanging from you—­here, turn around and let me see.”

Sure enough, a long strip of white muslin was streaming from under Dot’s petticoat.

“Dear me,” exclaimed that small person in surprise, “I guess that’s the petticoat Miss Florence basted a ruffle on.  I must have forgotten to take it off.”

“She’s calling you now,” announced Twaddles.  “You go on in.  I’ll stay and help Daddy.”

“Well, do you know,” said Father Blossom respectfully, “while I’m very much obliged to you, I think there’s nothing you can do for me just at present.  Can’t you do something for Mother or Norah?”

“Norah’s ironing,” Twaddles answered disconsolately.  “She says I make her nervous when she’s ironing.  And Mother is helping make Dot a dress.”

“I’ll tell you,” cried Father Blossom.  “How would you like to do a little packing for me?  You would?  That’s fine.  Down cellar you’ll find an old basket; you take that up to my room and put everything you find in the lowest desk drawer into it.  Then I’ll carry it down when I come in.  The lowest drawer, remember.  I’ve been wanting to clear that out for a long, long time, and I mustn’t go away on a trip and leave that trash there.”