“It’s the white banty, and it must have come in my hole!  Oh dear, I hope they won’t catch it!  Cousin Henny said she’d wring the neck of the first one that flied over the wall.”

Away went Rosy, to join in the hunt; for Miss Henny was too fat to run, and Roxy found the lively fowl too much for her.  It was a long and hard chase; feathers flew, the maid lost her breath, Rosy tumbled down, and Miss Henny screamed and scolded till she was forced to sit down and watch in silence.

At last poor, hunted Banty ran into the arbor, for its clipped wings would not lift it over the wall.  Button rushed after it, and dismal squalls plainly proclaimed that the naughty chicken was caught.

Miss Henny waddled down the path, declaring that she would wring its neck; and Roxy went puffing after her, glad to rest.  But the old summer-house was empty.  No little girl, no ruffled bantam, appeared.  Both had vanished like magic; and mistress and maid stared at each other in amazement, till they saw that the long-disused window was open, and a gleam of light came in from the narrow opening behind.

“My patience! if that child hasn’t crept out there, and bolted through that hole in the fence!  Did you ever, Miss?” exclaimed Roxy, trying not to look pleased at being spared the distasteful task of killing the poor chicken.

“Naughty girl!” began Miss Henny, when the sound of voices made both listen.  “Slip in there, and see what is going on,” said the mistress, well knowing that her stout person never could be squeezed into the small space between house and fence.

Roxy, being thin, easily obeyed, and in a whisper telephoned what went on beyond the hole, causing Miss Henny much vexation, surprise, and at last real pleasure, as the child performed her little part in the mission she had undertaken.

“Oh, please, it’s all my fault!  I kept the hole open, Mr. Thomas, and so Banty flied in.  But it isn’t hurt a bit, and I’ve brought it home all safe, ’cause I know you love your chickies, and Tabby ate lots of ’em,” said the childish voice in its most conciliatory tone.

“Why didn’t you fling it over the wall, as I did the cat?” asked Mr. Dover, smiling, as he shut up the truant fowl, and turned to look at the rosy, breathless child, whose pink frock bore the marks of many a tumble on grass and gravel.

“It would hurt Banty’s feelings, and yours too, and not be polite.  So I came myself, to make some pollygies, and say it was my fault.  But, please, could I keep the hole to peep through, if I always put up a board when I go away?  It is so dull in there, and so sweet in here!”

“Don’t you think a little gate would be nicer,—­one just big enough for you, with a hook to fasten it?  We’ll call it a button-hole,” laughed Mr. Dover.  “Then you could peep; or perhaps the ladies will think better of it, and show that they pardon my ill treatment of Tabby by letting you come in and pick some cherries and roses now and then.”