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In his anticipation of the Sunday afternoon treat in store for him, Moses dreamed all that night of little dark-skinned men running round after him with bowls of rice and jabbing him with chop-sticks. Mrs. Mifsud, however, had seemingly heard not a word of the story. In her distress she forgot that Mrs. Wopp was decidedly plebeian in her conversation and otherwise hopelessly unfashionable; all these discrepancies vanished from her mind, and leaning over on the ample bosom, she wept copiously. Mrs. Wopp patted her in a motherly way. “One touch o’ nater makes the hull world a-kin,” she whispered, “Hearten up, Mis’ Mifsud, Moses ’ll find yer little lamb. That boy seems slow, but all’s not gold that’s a-glitterin’. He’s shorely got a nose fer findin’ things. Our black carf got lost on the prairie one day an’ he found it arter everybody else hed giv’ up huntin’.” “You can send some one after us, a man—not you, not either of you,” he called back over his shoulder, and was soon out of sight..

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“Stop that there ‘Dead March of Saul,’ an’ go put on yer overalls,” ordered Mrs. Wopp, “what’s the idear of the gardenin’ tool, go git the littlest shovel to put inter the chimbly, an’ don’t let the grass grow under yer feet, neither.” The child seeing the twinkle in the older eyes, laughed aloud; and, wrapped in a voluminous apron, began the first task that had ever left its stain on her pretty fingers. “Fer the love o’ Mike, kid, how did you git here?” said Moses, rousing the small sleeper. “Gosh, but yer face needs warshin’.” The elders, having settled at their task, Maria Mifsud and Betty, who were considered too young and irresponsible to assist with such important work, made their way to the creek, that perennial source of amusement for the youthful. They were accompanied by Maria’s small brother, St. Elmo. Here, during the long summer afternoon they gaily disported themselves, even the rather dignified Maria entering with zest into childish fun..