He thought for a moment, but not a word of the little grace so carefully taught him came back to help him out. Suddenly, his Bible verse of last Sunday flashed upon his mind.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want," repeated little Tom boldly, and then he turned to pull out Miss Martin's chair as a sign that his part was done.

"Was that all right?" he whispered audibly; "I forgot the other one."

There was a strange look about Miss Martin's mouth, and she pa.s.sed her handkerchief over her face before answering.

"Very nice, Tom, to think of another verse so quickly, since you forgot the grace." She spoke so that the whole table could hear, and her eyes were fixed on Sammy, whose face was red and who was making queer noises.

"I wish I felt sure we all could do that," she added pointedly.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Sammy, choking back his laugh. "I mean, no, ma'am, I don't think I could." And Sammy fell to work upon the bowl of oatmeal before him, glad to escape the gaze of so many eyes.

Roger looked slowly round the long table laden with plates of brown and white bread, pitchers of foamy milk, bowls of apple-sauce. His eyes traveled down one side of the table, past his friend Lydia, to Sammy, intent now upon his supper; flyaway Cora, never still a minute; big Joe, little Joe, Josephine, and Joey; freckled little Freddy; and rested upon Mary Ellen presiding sedately over the foot of the table. Up the other side he came, looking at little English Alfie; spectacled John; Louise and Minette, the tiny, black-eyed French refugees; honest American William, with round blue eyes and snub nose; fat little Gus, whose pranks and hairbreadth escapes already rivaled those of Sammy; baby Celia; Polly, smiling and nodding mysteriously at Lydia; and lastly at Tom, who, duty done, was thoroughly enjoying his well-earned meal.

Eighteen hearty and happy little boys and girls they were, kindly and well disposed toward him, too, for they smiled and nodded at the newcomer, and attentively saw that all his wants were supplied.

"Aren't they nice?" asked Lydia, following Roger's gaze. "I knew you would like the boys. They won't hurt you. And the girls are fun, too."

And Lydia beamed proudly round at her friends, old and new.

"I'll take you out to see my rabbits after supper, if you like," offered Sammy, extra polite because of his recent behavior.

"And I'll give you a swing," volunteered Tom bashfully.

The boys were nice, Roger thought, and when, after supper, Lydia whispered hastily, "You go with the boys now, Roger, and I'll come in a minute; I only want to show something to Polly," he trotted off contentedly, and was soon engrossed in the bunnies, who obligingly devoured cabbage leaves, with seemingly no limit to their appet.i.te.

Lydia and Polly hastened upstairs and into the room where Lydia was to sleep that night with two other little girls. Her bag had been unpacked, and her clothes neatly disposed in one of the small cupboards that lined the wall. On the window-sill lay Lucy Locket, and beside her only one of the bronze slippers.

"Why, I don't see it anywhere, Polly," said Lydia, after a third search of the cupboard for the missing shoe. "You help me look."

The girls made a careful search, but no bronze slipper was to be found.

"I know I brought them both," said Lydia at last, her face puckering.

"Father said so, and I looked in the bag myself."

"Perhaps some one has taken it," was all Polly, her eyes big and round, could suggest.

"I know who did it!" exclaimed Lydia, her head in a whirl at her loss.

"It's that Mary Ellen. She took my slipper because she didn't like them, and I'm going to tell Miss Martin."

And in a twinkling, Lydia was running down the hall calling:

"Miss Martin! Miss Martin! One of my 'brown bettys' is gone, and Mary Ellen took it! Mary Ellen has taken one of my 'brown bettys'!"

CHAPTER XI-Who Stole the Brown Betty?

Out on the front veranda, in the twilight, sat Miss Martin surrounded by a little group of children. It was the quiet hour before bedtime when, by ones and twos and threes, the children came together for the talk or story that made a pleasant ending to their day.

To-night, Louise and Minette were having a lesson in English. They were perched like two little blackbirds on the arm of Miss Martin's chair, and Louise was repeating obediently, "Yez, Meez Mart, I lov' you, Jo,"

while Minette's contribution was to pull her curls across her eyes and laugh. Mary Ellen sat on the top step, engrossed in the braiding of a horse-hair ring. Sammy and Tom, escorting little Roger, came round the house from the barn, and settled themselves at Miss Martin's feet.

"Tell us a story, please, Miss Martin," begged Josephine, twisting Louise's black curls as she spoke, "about when you were a little girl."

"Were you ever a little girl?" asked Gus, sitting up straight in his amazement. "Did you ever have a father and a mother?"

Miss Martin laughed, but before she could answer this question there was a sound of flying feet, and Lydia ran out into the midst of the peaceful scene.

"My slippers! My 'brown bettys'!" she gasped excitedly. "One is gone!

Mary Ellen took it. I know she did! I can't find it, and Polly can't find it either."

Mary Ellen dropped her horse-hair ring, and stared at Lydia in astonishment.

"I never did!" said Mary Ellen in a burst. "I never touched them. I didn't see her slippers." And her eyes flashed in righteous indignation.

"Yes, she did," interposed Roger, going over to Lydia and taking her hand. "Mary Ellen took Lydia's slippers."

"Oh, you-you-" cried Mary Ellen, making a dart at Roger as words failed her in her wrath.

"Children, stop!" commanded bewildered Miss Martin. "Stop this minute, and tell me what all this trouble is about. What have you lost, Lydia, and why do you think Mary Ellen has taken it?"

"I didn't," muttered Mary Ellen defiantly. "I didn't."

"Be quiet, Mary Ellen," said Miss Martin again. "Tell, Lydia, what have you lost?"

"My slippers," said Lydia, her eyes filling with tears at the thought of her lost treasure; "one of my 'brown bettys,' my bronze slippers. They are my best. Father packed them for me, and I saw them in my bag, and now only one of them is upstairs with the rest of my clothes. I can't find the other, and Polly can't either."

"But why do you say that Mary Ellen has taken it?" asked Miss Martin, with a keen look at both little girls.

"She didn't like it because Luley and Lena were too dressed up to play,"

answered Lydia, "so she wouldn't like my slippers either."

"But I don't think Mary Ellen would touch them, even if she didn't approve of them," said Miss Martin, hoping to find her way out of the tangle. "Did you touch Lydia's slippers, Mary Ellen?"

"No, ma'am," answered Mary Ellen virtuously, feeling public opinion turn her way.

Behind Miss Martin's back, her eyes fixed on Lydia, she noiselessly said:

"I'll never speak to you again as long as I live."

"I don't care," answered Lydia out loud.

"Don't care?" repeated Miss Martin, not understanding. "Of course you care; we all do. Now, Roger, why did you say Mary Ellen took the slipper? Did you see her take it?"

"No, but Lydia said so," returned the little boy innocently. To a stanch friend like Roger, whatever Lydia said must be so.

"Children, did any of you see or touch Lydia's slipper?" was the next question. "No? Then, Sammy, go find out who unpacked Lydia's bag, and ask her to come here."