NEXT morning was a pleasant one, and as soon as breakfast was over I went out into the kitchen and told Minerva that if her friend did not delay, her musical instrument ought to arrive by Friday. I found her in her usual state of good temper.

“That little place where you were sewing, out there in the woods, will be a very good spot in which to play it,” said I suggestively.

“Oh, I kin play it anywheys,” said she with a kindling glance, that bespoke the artist of temperament, absolute master of his instrument. So Paderewski might speak of his ability to play a piano in a drawing-room car.

That morning I had a notion to go fishing, and I asked Ethel to join me, but she said she was tired, and laughed as she said it. Of course Minerva was the real reason.

“I wish that houses were automatic,” said I, “so that they could run themselves. Just think how nice it would be to have a house fitted to run by steam all day long, by simply dropping a five dollar gold piece in the slot in the morning.”

“How expensive,” said the economical Ethel.

“I don’t think so,” said I, “there’s many a housekeeper who would be willing to give up many things if five dollars a day would bring relief from household sorrows. ‘No servants needed. A child can run it. Can be fitted to any house. Gas or electric or steam motive power. Not half the danger from explosions that went with the old system when servants were liable to go off at any moment. Come to our warerooms and see a large house running by itself.’ There’s a fortune in the idea.”

“Well, you have the idea,” said Ethel. “Go sell it.”

“No, I’m going fishing.”

The great advantage that fishing has over some sports is that one does not need ability or paraphernalia of any sort beyond those of the most primitive type. Your hammer-thrower needs brawn, your chess player brains, your golf player a caddy—and a vocabulary, but anyone can go fishing. Of course there is a great difference between going fishing and catching fish, and I am one of that large army that goes fishing and returns from fishing as innocent of fish as at the moment of departure.

But to the man with eyes, there are many things besides fish that he can catch, and, although no hint of a nibble came to my patient fingers, I reveled in the day and would have stayed longer if I had not felt anxious about Ethel and Minerva. What could they do to amuse each other, with me away?

I made my pleasant way back up the hills, so reminiscent of Scotch scenery, and knew very well the sarcasms that would greet me when I acknowledged that I had possessed no magnetism over the fish. Ethel always has a store of amiable causticisms for me when I come back from a fishless expedition.

When I returned I found the house empty and the gluey Miss Pussy shut up and miaowing in the kitchen. I was startled at first. I had come up by way of the pine grove, and there was no one there. I called my loudest and no one answered. Had Minerva obliged Ethel to get a horse and wagon and take her to the station in my absence? It looked like it. The fire was nearly out, the dishes all washed, the floor freshly mopped. That was it. Minerva had swept and garnished the house and had then left it, and in a short time Ethel would come back disconsolate, and then—why, then we would pack up and go back ourselves.

The only thing that did not fit in with my conjecture was the presence of Miss Pussy. It did not seem as if Minerva would go away and leave her precious cat.

I heard a rattle of wheels. Bert Dalton was going to the village. I would go down with him and ride back with Ethel. She had probably hired the Stevens’ horse. I hurried out and hailed Bert, and he stopped.

“Going to the village?”

“Yes, sir, want anything got?”

I explained the situation, and joined him, and we were soon out of sight of the house. I looked at my watch. If we hurried I could yet get to the station before the train for New York came in. I told Bert so, and he quickened the horse’s pace.

About half a mile on our way I heard some one calling for help. Bert heard the call, too, and just as I was going to say “stop,” he stopped of his own accord. We both jumped out. The noise came from a field on our right, mostly given over to blueberry bushes, but with a little timber on its farther edge.

“Help! Murder!” It was a high-keyed woman’s voice.

“Tramps,” said Bert, as we hurried on.

“Hysterics,” said I, for I was sure I heard laughter alternating with the screams. And the laughter had a strangely familiar sound.

On we ran, the screams continuing, and at last the sounds were located, that is, the screams were. They came from a low growing chestnut. Perched in its branches sat Minerva, her face the image of horror, and below on a fallen trunk sat Ethel, laughing, with the tears rolling down her cheeks. By her side were two tin pails, nearly full of blueberries.

“Minerva, stop that screaming. I tell you she won’t hurt you,” said Ethel, and then went ............