Felicity and Cecily stared blankly at the Story Girl.  We boys began to laugh, but were checked midway by Uncle Roger.  He was rocking himself back and forth, with his hand pressed against his stomach.

“Oh,” he groaned, “I’ve been wondering what these sharp pains I’ve been feeling ever since dinner meant.  I know now.  I must have swallowed a needle—­several needles, perhaps.  I’m done for!”

The poor Story Girl went very white.

“Oh, Uncle Roger, could it be possible?  You couldn’t have swallowed a needle without knowing it.  It would have stuck in your tongue or teeth.”

“I didn’t chew the pudding,” groaned Uncle Roger.  “It was too tough—­I just swallowed the chunks whole.”

He groaned and twisted and doubled himself up.  But he overdid it.  He was not as good an actor as the Story Girl.  Felicity looked scornfully at him.

“Uncle Roger, you are not one bit sick,” she said deliberately.  “You are just putting on.”

“Felicity, if I die from the effects of eating sawdust pudding, flavoured with needles, you’ll be sorry you ever said such a thing to your poor old uncle,” said Uncle Roger reproachfully.  “Even if there were no needles in it, sixty-year-old sawdust can’t be good for my tummy.  I daresay it wasn’t even clean.”

“Well, you know every one has to eat a peck of dirt in his life,” giggled Felicity.

“But nobody has to eat it all at once,” retorted Uncle Roger, with another groan.  “Oh, Sara Stanley, it’s a thankful man I am that your Aunt Olivia is to be home to-night.  You’d have me kilt entirely by another day.  I believe you did it on purpose to have a story to tell.”

Uncle Roger hobbled off to the barn, still holding on to his stomach.

“Do you think he really feels sick?” asked the Story Girl anxiously.

“No, I don’t,” said Felicity.  “You needn’t worry over him.  There’s nothing the matter with him.  I don’t believe there were any needles in that sawdust.  Mother sifted it very carefully.”

“I know a story about a man whose son swallowed a mouse,” said the Story Girl, who would probably have known a story and tried to tell it if she were being led to the stake.  “And he ran and wakened up a very tired doctor just as he had got to sleep.

“‘Oh, doctor, my son has swallowed a mouse,’ he cried.  ’What shall I do?’

“‘Tell him to swallow a cat,’ roared the poor doctor, and slammed his door.

“Now, if Uncle Roger has swallowed any needles, maybe it would make it all right if he swallowed a pincushion.”

We all laughed.  But Felicity soon grew sober.

“It seems awful to think of eating a sawdust pudding.  How on earth did you make such a mistake?”

“It looked just like cornmeal,” said the Story Girl, going from white to red in her shame.  “Well, I’m going to give up trying to cook, and stick to things I can do.  And if ever one of you mentions sawdust pudding to me I’ll never tell you another story as long as I live.”