“There, there, I guess we’re all right,” stout Mr. Eustice, who owned the store, consoled her.  “See, Dot, you’re not hurt and Carroll here fell on a sack of grain which didn’t break his bones.  Not even one box is smashed, so why shed tears?  ’Tisn’t every little girl comes to see us who can say she’s been in the flour bin.”

Dot continued to sob while Mr. Carroll did up the oatmeal and the cornstarch and the other things and put them in Bobby’s bag.  She was still crying when the four little Blossoms went down the grocery store steps and turned toward the road that led home.

“I should think you would cry,” said Meg severely.  “I was so mortified!  Can’t you go anywhere, Dot, without falling into something?”

“Don’t rub it in,” whispered Bobby, feeling sorry for his little sister.  Then he happened to get a good look at Twaddles, who had been suspiciously quiet ever since Dot’s unfortunate accident.

“Twaddles Blossom!” ejaculated Bobby.  “What have you sat in?”

Twaddles twisted anxiously, trying to get a look at the back of his tunic blouse and bloomers.

“Does it show?” he asked uncomfortably.  “I thought perhaps it didn’t.  I don’t know what it is, Bobby—­I only sat on that little box by the pump-thing in the back of the store.”

“That’s where they fill the kerosene oil cans,” Bobby informed him.  “I guess you’ve gone and soaked up some of the oil.  Don’t go near a match or you’ll burn up.”

This awful prospect alarmed Twaddles beyond words.

“I’ll stay out here,” he quavered nervously, for by this time the four little Blossoms had reached their own front lawn.  “Mother might have the fireplace lighted.”

Meg and Dot and Bobby were relieved at Twaddles’ decision.  They had no wish to see their little brother catch fire, and fire they always associated with kerosene oil, thanks to Norah’s repeated and solemn warnings.

No one missed Twaddles until they were seated at the table.

“Where’s Twaddles?” asked Mother Blossom in some alarm as she noted his empty chair.  “Didn’t he go to the store with you, Bobby?”

“Yes, Mother, he went with us,” answered Bobby composedly, beginning to taste his soup.

“I wonder if he’s upstairs washing his hands,” went on Mother Blossom.  “Dot, will you run and call him?”

“He isn’t upstairs,” said Dot quickly.

Mother Blossom stared, bewildered.

“Didn’t he come back with you?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, he came back,” admitted Bobby.  “Didn’t he, Meg?”

Meg nodded, but said nothing.  All three of the children had a vague idea that they were doing Twaddles a great kindness.  Of course Mother Blossom would not be pleased to find that he had sat down in kerosene oil.

“Ralph!” said Mother Blossom in an odd, choked voice.  “Oh, Ralph—­”

“Bobby, where is Twaddles?” demanded Father Blossom sternly.  “Where did you leave him?  Is anything the matter with him?”