"Ask the children," suggested Sally from the porch, where she sat cheerfully rocking and fanning herself. "Whenever there's anything missing at our house, some of the children can tell who's mislaid it." But Lucy Ellen and little John with one voice made haste to defend themselves against the visitor's accusation. By this time Dan had come into the parlor, and the three stood looking at each other in silent perplexity.
Dan was openly worried over the delay, Mary was sympathetically distressed, and John's face expressed nothing but the deepest concern over the situation.
"Maybe it's up-stairs," he said. "Suppose you and Sally run up there and search while Dan and myself'll search down here. That'll save time."
"What sort of a lookin' thing is that chart?" asked Dan, as he got down on his knees and made a dive under the sofa.
"Well, I'd recognize it if I saw it," said John, "but, come to think of it, I don't know as I could tell anybody exactly how it looks. It's something done up in a roll and tied with red tape."
"Done up in a roll and tied with red tape," repeated Dan, meditatively, opening closet doors and peering into corners, while he tried to keep in his mind an image of the lost chart as described by his fellow searcher. "Is this it?"
"Well, now that's something like it," said John. "I'll ask Mary. Here, Mary, is this it?"
Mary leaned over the railing with hopeful expectancy in her glance.
"Why, John, that's my gossamer case with the gossamer in it. I thought you knew my chart better than that. Tell the children to look, too. They'd know it if they saw it."
"I'm lookin' as hard as I can," piped Lucy Ellen from the closet under the stairs, while little John seized a long stick, ran to the henhouse, poked the setting hens off their eggs, and searched diligently in every nest for Mother's lost chart.