“Wow!” shrieked Gyp, and slipping from the fence, he ran to the woods, lest Aunt Judith should immediately put her threat into effect.

The one, and only thing that Gyp feared was a policeman.

A wild little ragamuffin, living in an old hut that was home only in name, with parents as ignorant as himself, he was viewed with contempt by every child in the town, and feared by them, as well.

There was nothing that he dared not do—­if no policeman were in sight.

It was well known by everyone that when Gyp once became interested in anything, he would not let it alone until something occurred that he thought more attractive.

Aunt Judith, shading her eyes with her hand, waited until she felt sure that Gyp did not intend to return.  Then locking the door, and closing the windows, she made her way down the avenue toward the parsonage.

She felt unusually lonely, and the parson’s wife was always glad to see her.

The walk was a long one, and when Aunt Judith had reached the parsonage, she paused for a moment to enjoy the light breeze before opening the little gate.  “I saw you coming,” said a pleasant voice, “and I guess you felt the heat on the way.  Come in, and sit down under the big maple trees.  It’s cooler than it is in the house.”

As she spoke, the parson’s wife took Aunt Judith’s arm, and led her to a rustic seat, and seating herself beside her, commenced to talk of bits of parish news.

Aunt Judith’s mind was far away with Rose, and her answers became more, and more wide of the mark.

“I think the boys of the choir sing beautifully,” chirped the little woman, “but they really should have new cotta’s, but the society feels that it really can’t afford it.”

“Yes’m,” said Aunt Judith.

“And there are some that think we ought to have an organist.  Mrs. Bingley volunteers to play until we’re able to hire some one, but she isn’t much of a player.  She says she can’t play any music unless it’s written in one flat.  She says it’s the only key she knows.  She says two flats make her uneasy, but three flats makes her simply wild!”

“Well, if I don’t let them out of the coop they’ll be sick, and if I do let them out, they’re likely to get lost.”

The parson’s wife stared uneasily at Aunt Judith.  Then thinking that she must have been needlessly startled, she again spoke.

“As I said before, what makes her wild is three flats,” she said.

“But the chicken-coop is all slats,” said Aunt Judith, “what do you mean by three?”

“Don’t you feel well?” the little woman asked anxiously, leaning toward Aunt Judith, and looking up into her shrewd face.

“Why, yes,” Aunt Judith replied, “only I’m lonesome without Rose, and some anxious about the hens.”

A sigh of relief escaped the other woman’s lips, but she did not explain.