By Margaret Sidney.
VIII.
A BOY, breathless from long running, rushed into Mrs. Allen's arms as she turned away from the sitting-room window with a sigh.
"Why, here you are!" she exclaimed in a joyous burst.
"The fellows are in some sort of a scrape," gasped the boy, careful of his words; "can't get home—I'm going to tell their mothers—"
Mrs. Allen looked at her empty arms, turned and went out to the kitchen.
"Ann, you may put on the tea; we will not wait for George Edward."
"Land! he just raced in, red as a boiled lobster," cried Ann with the privilege of a favored servant.
"I know; but he is off again, on an errand that had to be attended to—put on the tea, and ring the bell."