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“Train? Is she going away?” The small girl’s face grew sorrowful. Moses was whistling a dismal discordant air in the backyard when the voice of his mother smote his ears. “Feel that muscle,” he said a moment later; bending his arm, and pressing her fingers to it. “That’s got to grow by a broom or hoe, something besides football!”.

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“Maria, where is St. Elmo?” asked Mrs. Mifsud, as with flushed face she basted some fowls in the oven. He went on, a little cautiously now, and shortly came in view of the “Ha’nt,” a sinister though imposing house, built of cut stone, close against the face of the most picturesque mountain of the range, bounding Vina Valley. The windows were curtained with cobwebs and dust. For years the wide front door had been nailed up with the same sun-bleached boards; and “Keep out!” spoke from every gray splinter. “Good-by Dad and Mar and Mosey,” called Betty as she sped down the path toward the school-house. “What things?”.