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It was just after that happy visit of which I told at the end of “What

Katy Did,” that Elsie and John made their famous excursion to Conic

Section; an excursion which neither of them ever forgot, and about

which the family teased them for a long time afterward.

The summer had been cool; but, as often happens after cool summers, the autumn proved unusually hot. It seemed as if the months had been playing a game, and had “changed places” all round; and as if September were determined to show that he knew how to make himself just as disagreeable as August, if only he chose to do so. All the last half of Cousin Helen’s stay, the weather was excessively sultry. She felt it very much, though the children did all they could to make her comfortable, with shaded rooms, and iced water, and fans. Every evening the boys would wheel her sofa out on the porch, in hopes of coolness; but it was of no use: the evenings were as warm as the days, and the yellow dust hanging in the air made the sunshine look thick and hot. A few bright leaves appeared on the trees, but they were wrinkled, and of an ugly color. Clover said she thought they had been boiled red like lobsters. Altogether, the month was a trying one, and the coming of October made little difference: still the dust continued, and the heat; and the wind, when it blew, had no refreshment in it, but seemed to have passed over some great furnace which had burned out of it all life and flavor.

In spite of this, however it was wonderful to see how Katy gained and improved. Every day added to her powers. First she came down to dinner, then to breakfast. She sat on the porch in the afternoons; she poured the tea. It was like a miracle to the others, in the beginning, to watch her going about the house; but they got used to it surprisingly soon,—one does to pleasant things. One person, however, never got used to it, never took it as a matter of course; and that was Katy herself. She could not run downstairs, or out into the garden; she could not open the kitchen door to give an order, without a sense of gladness and exultation which was beyond words. The wider and more active life stimulated her in every way. Her cheeks grew round and pink, her eyes bright. Cousin Helen and papa watched this change with indescribable pleasure; and Mrs. Worrett, who dropped in to lunch one day, fairly screamed with surprise at the sight of it.

“To think of it!” she cried, “why, the last time I was here you looked as if you had took root in that chair of yours for the rest of your days, and here you are stepping around as lively as I be. Well, well! wonders will never cease. It does my eyes good to see you, Katherine. I wish your poor aunt were here to-day; that I do. How pleased she’d be?”

It is doubtful whether Aunt Izzie would have been so pleased, for the lived-in look of the best parlor would have horrified her extremely; but Katy did not recollect that just then. She was touched at the genuine kindness of Mrs. Worrett’s voice, and took very willingly her offered kiss. Clover brought lemonade and grapes, and they all devoted themselves to making the poor lady comfortable. Just before she went away she said,

“How is it that I can’t never get any of you to come out to the Conic Section? I’m sure I’ve asked you often enough. There’s Elsie, now, and John, they’re just the age to enjoy being in the country. Why won’t you send ‘em out for a week? Johnnie can feed chickens, and chase ‘em, too, if she likes,” she added, as Johnnie dashed just then into view, pursuing one of Phil’s bantams round the house. “Tell her so, won’t you, Katherine? There is lots of chickens on the farm. She can chase ‘em from morning to night, if she’s a mind to.”

Katy thanked her, but she didn’t think the children would care to go. She gave Johnnie the message, and then the whole matter passed out of her mind. The family were in low spirits that morning because of Cousin Helen’s having just gone away; and Elsie was lying on the sofa fanning herself with a great palm-leaf fan.

“Oh, dear!” she sighed. “Do you suppose it’s every going to be cool again? It does seem as if I couldn’t bear it any longer.”

“Aren’t you well, darling?” inquired Katy, anxiously.

“Oh, yes! well enough,” replied Elsie. “It’s only this horrid heat, and never going away to where it’s cooler. I keep thinking about the country, and wishing I were there feeling the wind blow. I wonder if papa wouldn’t let John and me go to Conic Section, and see Mrs. Worrett. Do you think he would, if you asked him?”

“But,” said Katy, amazed, “Conic Section isn’t exactly country, you know. It is just out of the city,—only six miles from here. And Mrs. Worrett’s house is close to the road, papa said. Do you think you’d like it, dear? It can’t be very much cooler than this.”

“Oh, yes! it can,” rejoined Elsie, in a tone which was a little fretful. “It’s always cooler on a farm. There’s more room for the wind, and— oh, every thing’s pleasanter! You can’t think how tired I am of this hot house. Last night I hardly slept at all; and, when I did, I dreamed that I was a loaf of brown bread, and Debby was putting me into the oven to bake. It was a horrid dream. I was so glad to wake up. Won’t you ask papa if we may go, Katy?”

“Why, of course I will, if you wish it so much. Only”—Katy stopped and did not finish her sentence. A vision of fat Mrs. Worrett had risen before her, and she could not help doubting if Elsie would find the farm as pleasant as she expected. But sometimes the truest kindness is in giving people their own unwise way, and Elsie’s eyes looked so wistful that Katy had no heart to argue or refuse.

Dr. Carr looked doubtful when the plan was proposed to him.

“It’s too hot,” he said. “I don’t believe the girls will like it.”

“Oh, yes! we will, papa; indeed we will,” pleaded Elsie and John, who had lingered near the door to learn the fate of their request.

Dr. Carr smiled at the imploring faces, but he looked a little quizzical. “Very well,” he said, “you may go. Mr. Worrett is coming into town to-morrow, on some bank business. I’ll send word by him; and in the afternoon, when it is cooler, Alexander can drive you out.”

“Goody! Goody!” cried John, jumping up and down, while Elsie put her arms round papa’s neck and gave him a hug.

“And Thursday I’ll send for you,” he continued.

“But, papa,” expostulated Elsie, “That’s only two days. Mrs. Worrett said a week.”

“Yes, she said a week,” chimed in John; “and she’s got ever so many chickens, and I’m to feed ‘em, and chase ‘em as much as I like. Only it’s too hot to run much,” she added reflectively.

“You won’t really send for us on Thursday, will you, papa?” urged

Elsie, anxiously. “I’d like to stay ever and ever so long; but Mrs.

Worrett said a week.”

“I shall send on Thursday,” repeated Dr. Carr, in a decided tone. Then, seeing that Elsie’s lip was trembling, and her eyes were full of tears, he continued: “Don’t look so woeful, Pussy. Alexander shall drive out for you; but if you want to stay longer, you may send him back with a note to say what day you would like to have him come again. Will that do?”

“Oh, yes!” said Elsie, wiping her eyes; “that will do beautifully, papa. Only, it seems such a pity that Alexander should have to go twice when it’s so hot; for we’re perfectly sure to want to stay a week.”

Papa only laughed, as he kissed her. All being settled the children began to get ready. It was quite an excitement packing the bags, and deciding what to take and what not to take. Elsie grew bright and gay with the bustle. Just to think of being in the country,—the cool green country,—made her perfectly happy, she declared. The truth was, she was a little feverish and not quite well, and didn’t know exactly how she felt or what she wanted.

The drive out was pleasant, except that Alexander upset John’s gravity, and hurt Elsie’s dignity very much, by inquiring, as they left the gate, “Do the little misses know where it is that they want to go?” Part of the way the road ran through woods. They were rather boggy woods; but the dense shade kept off the sun, and there was a spicy smell of evergreens and sweet fern. Elsie felt that the good time had fairly begun and her spirits rose with every turn of the wheels.

By and by they left the woods, and came out again into the sunshine. The road was dusty, and so were the fields, and the ragged sheaves of corn-stalks, which dotted them here and there, looked dusty too. Piles of dusty red apples lay on the grass, under the orchard trees. Some cows going down a lane toward their milking shed, mooed in a dispirited and thirsty way, which made the children feel thirsty also.

“I want a drink of water awfully,” said John. “Do you suppose it’s much farther? How long will it be before we get to Mrs. Worrett’s, Alexander?”

“‘Most there, miss,” replied Alexander, laconically.

Elsie put her head out of the carriage, and looked eagerly round. Where was the delightful farm? She saw a big, pumpkin-colored house by the roadside, a little farther on; but surely that couldn’t be it. Yes: Alexander drew up at the gate, and jumped down to lift. them out. It really was! The surprise quite took away her breath.

She looked about. There were the woods, to be sure, but half a mile away across the fields. Near the house, there were no trees at all; only some lilac bushes at one side; there was no green grass either. A gravel path took up the whole of the narrow front yard; and, what with the blazing color of the paint and the wide-awake look of the blindless windows, the house had somehow the air of standing on tip-toe and staring hard at something,—the dust in the road, perhaps; for there seemed to be nothing to stare at.

Elsie’s heart sank indescribably, as she and John got very slowly out of the carryall, and Alexander, putting his arm over the fence, rapped loudly at the front door. It was some minutes before the rap was answered. Then a heavy step was heard creaking through the hall, and somebody began fumbling at an obstinate bolt, which would not move. Next, a voice which they recognized as Mrs. Worrett’s called: “Isaphiny, Isaphiny, come and see if you can open this door.”

“How funny!” whispered Johnnie, beginning to giggle.

“Isaphiny” seemed to be upstairs; for presently they heard her running down, after which a fresh rattle began at the obstinate bolt. But still the door did not open, and at length Mrs. Worrett put her lips to the keyhole, and asked,—

“Who is it?”

The voice sounded so hollow and ghostly, that Elsie jumped, as she answered: “It’s I, Mrs. Worrett,—Elsie Carr. And Johnnie’s here, too.”

“Ts, ts, ts!” sounded from within, and then came a whispering; after

which Mrs. Worrett put her mouth again to the keyhole, and called out:

“Go round to the back, children. I can’t make this door open anyway.

It’s swelled up with the damp.”

“Damp!” whispered Johnnie; “why, it hasn’t rained since the third week in August; papa said so yesterday.”

“That’s nothing, Miss Johnnie,” put in Alexander, overhearing her. “Folks hereaway don’t open their front doors much,—only for weddings and funerals and such like. Very likely this has stood shut these five years. I know the last time I drove Miss Carr out, before she died, it was just so; and she had to go round to the back, as you’re a-doing now.”

John’s eyes grew wide with wonder; but there was no time to say any thing, for they had turned the corner of the house, and there was Mrs. Worrett waiting at the kitchen door to receive them. She looked fatter than ever, Elsie thought; but she kissed them both, and said she was real glad to see a Carr in her house at last.

“It was too bad,” she went on, “to keep you waiting so. But the fact is I got asleep and when you knocked, I waked up all in a daze, and for a minute it didn’t come to me who it must be. Take the bags right upstairs, Isaphiny; and put them in the keeping-room chamber. How’s your pa, Elsie,—and Katy? Not laid up again, I hope.”

“Oh, no; she seems to get better all the time.”

“That’s right,” responded Mrs. Worrett, heartily. “I didn’t know but what, with hot weather, and company in the house, and all,—there’s a chicken, Johnnie,” she exclaimed, suddenly interrupting herself, as a long-legged hen ran past the door. “Want to chase it right away? You can, if you like. Or would you rather go upstairs first?”

“Upstairs, please,” replied John, while Elsie went to the door, and watched Alexander driving away down the dusty road. She felt as if their last friend had deserted them. Then she and Johnnie followed Isaphiny upstairs. Mrs. Worrett never “mounted” in hot weather she told them.

The spare chamber was just under the roof. It was very hot, and smelt as if the windows had never been opened since the house was built. As soon as they were alone, Elsie ran across the room, and threw up the sash; but the moment she let go, it fell again with a crash which shook the floor and made the pitcher dance and rattle in the wash-bowl. The children were dreadfully frightened, especially when they heard Mrs. Worrett at the foot of the stairs calling to ask what was the matter.

“It’s only the window,” explained Elsie, going into the hall. “I’m so sorry; but it won’t stay open. Something’s the matter with it.”

“Did you stick the nail in?” inquired Mrs. Worrett.

“The nail? No, ma’am.”

“Why, how on earth did you expect it do stay up then? You young folks never see what’s before your eyes. Look on the window-sill, and you’ll find it. It’s put there a purpose.”

Elsie returned, much discomfited. She looked, and, sure enough, there was a big nail, and there was a hole in the side of the window-frame in which to stick it. This time she got the window open without accident; but a long blue paper shade caused her much embarrassment. It hung down, and kept the air from coming in. She saw no way of fastening it.

“Roll it up, and put in a pin,” suggested John.

“I’m afraid of tearing the paper. Dear, what a horrid thing it is!”

Replied Elsie in a disgusted tone.

However, she stuck in a couple of pins and fastened the shade out of the way. After that, they looked about the room. It was plainly furnished, but very nice and neat. The bureau was covered with a white towel, on which stood a pincushion, with “Remember Ruth” stuck upon it in pins. John admired this very much, and felt that she could never make up her mind to spoil the pattern by taking out a pin, however great her need of one might be.

“What a high bed!” she exclaimed. “Elsie, you’ll have to climb on a chair to get into it; and so shall I.”

Elsie felt of it. “Feathers!” she cried a tone of horror. “O John! why did we come? What shall we do?”

“I guess we shan’t mind it much,” replied John, who was perfectly well, and considered these little variations on home habits rather as fun than otherwise. But Elsie gave a groan. Two nights on a feather-bed! How should she bear it!

Tea was ready in the kitchen when they went downstairs. A small fire had been lighted to boil the water. It was almost out, but the room felt stiflingly warm, and the butter was so nearly melted that Mrs. Worrett had to help it with a tea-spoon. Buzzing flies hovered above the table, and gathered thick on the plate of cake. The bread was excellent, and so were the cottage cheeses and the stewed quinces; but Elsie could eat nothing. She was in a fever of heat. Mrs. Worrett was distressed at this want of appetite; and so was Mr. Worrett, to whom the children had just been introduced. He was a kindly-looking old man, with a bald head, who came to supper in his shirt-sleeves, and was a thin as his wife was fat.

“I’m afraid the little girl don’t like her supper, Lucinda,” he said.

“You must see about getting her something different for to-morrow.”

“Oh! it isn’t that. Every thing is very nice, only, I’m not hungry,” pleaded Elsie, feeling as if she should like to cry. She did cry a little after tea, as they sat in the dusk; Mr. Worrett smoking his pipe and slapping mosquitoes outside the door, and Mrs. Worrett sleeping rather noisily in a big rocking-chair. But not even Johnnie found out that she was crying; for Elsie felt that she was the naughtiest child in the world to behave so badly when everybody was so kind to her. She repeated this to herself many times, but it didn’t do much good. As often as the thought of home and Katy and papa came, a wild longing to get back to them would rush over her, and her eyes would fill again with sudden tears.

The night was very uncomfortable. Not a breath of wind was stirring, or none found its way to the stifling bed where the little sisters lay. John slept pretty well, in spite of heat and mosquitoes, but Elsie hardly closed her eyes. Once she got up and went to the window, but the blue paper shade had become unfastened, and rattled down upon her head with a sudden bump, which startled her very much. She could find no pins in the dark, so she left it hanging; whereupon it rustled and flapped through the rest of the night, and did its share toward keeping her awake. About three o’clock she fell into a doze; and it seemed only a minute after that before she waked up to find bright sunshine in the room, and half a dozen roosters crowing and calling under the windows. Her head ached violently. She longed to stay in bed, but was afraid it would be thought impolite, so she dressed and went down with Johnnie; but she looked so pale and ate so little breakfast that Mrs. Worrett was quite troubled, and said she had better not try to go out, but just lie on the lounge in the best room, and amuse herself with a book.

The lounge in the best room was covered with slippery purple chintz. It was a high lounge and very narrow. There was nothing at the end to hold the pillow in its place; so the pillow constantly tumbled off and jerked Elsie’s head suddenly backward, which was not at all comfortable. Worse,—Elsie having dropped into a doze, she herself tumbled to the floor, rolling from the glassy, smooth chintz as if it had been a slope of ice. This adventure made her so nervous that she dared not go to sleep again, though Johnnie fetched two chairs, and placed them beside the sofa to hold her on. So she followed Mrs. Worretts advice, and “amused herself with a book.” There were not many books in the best room. The one Elsie chose was a fat black volume called “The Complete Works of Mrs. Hannah More.” Part of it was prose, and part was poetry. Elsie began with a chapter called “Hints on the Formation of the Character of a Youthful Princess.” But there were a great many long words in it; so she turned to a story named “Coelebs in Search of a Wife.” It was about a young gentleman who wanted to get married, but who didn’t feel sure that there were any young ladies nice enough for him; so he went about making visits, first to one and then to another; and, when he had stayed a few days at a house, he would always say, “No, she won’t do,” and then he would go away. At last, he found a young lady who seemed the very person, who visited the poor, and got up early in the morning, and always wore white, and never forgot to wind up her watch or do her duty; and Elsie almost thought that now the difficult young gentleman must be satisfied, and say, “This is the very thing.” When, lo! her attention wandered a little, and the next thing she knew she was rolling off the lounge for the second time, in company with Mrs. Hannah More. They landed in the chairs, and Johnnie ran and picked them both up. Altogether, lying on the best parlor sofa was not very restful; and as the day went on, and the sun beating on the blindless windows made the room hotter, Elsie grew continually more and more feverish and homesick and disconsolate.

Meanwhile Johnnie was kept in occupation by Mrs. Worrett, who had got the idea firmly fixed in her mind, that the chief joy of a child’s life was to chase chickens. Whenever a hen fluttered past the kitchen door, which was about once in three minutes, she would cry: “Here, Johnnie, here’s another chicken for you to chase;” and poor Johnnie would feel obliged to dash out into the sun. Being a very polite little girl, she did not like to say to Mrs. Worrett that running in the heat was disagreeable: so by dinner-time she was thoroughly tired out, and would have been cross if she had known how; but she didn’t— Johnnie was never cross. After dinner it was even worse; for the sun was hotter, and the chickens, who didn’t mind sun, seemed to be walking all the time. “Hurry, Johnnie, here’s another,” came so constantly, that at last Elsie grew desperate, got up, and went to the kitchen with a languid appeal: “Please, Mrs. Worrett, won’t you let Johnnie stay by me, because my head aches so hard?” After that, Johnnie had a rest; for Mrs. Worrett was the kindest of women, and had no idea that she was not amusing her little guest in the most delightful manner.

A little before six, Elsie’s head felt better; and she and Johnnie put on their hats, and went for a walk in the garden. There was not much to see: beds of vegetables,—a few currant bushes,—that was all. Elsie was leaning against a paling, and trying to make out why the Worrett house had that queer tiptoe expression, when a sudden loud grunt startled her, and something touched the top of her head. She turned, and there was an enormous pig, standing on his hind legs, on the other side of the paling. He was taller than Elsie, as he stood thus, and it was his cold nose which had touched her head. Somehow, appearing in this unexpected way, he seemed to the children like some dreadful wild beast. They screamed with fright, and fled to the house, from which Elsie never ventured to stir again during their visit. John chased chickens at intervals, but it was a doubtful pleasure; and all the time she kept a wary eye on the distant pig.

That evening, while Mrs. Worrett slept and Mr. Worrett smoked outside the door, Elsie felt so very miserable that she broke down altogether. She put her head in Johnnie’s lap, as they sat together in the darkest corner of the room, and sobbed and cried, making as little noise as she possibly could. Johnnie comforted her with soft pats and strokings; but did not dare to say a word, for fear Mrs. Worrett should wake up and find them out.

When the morning came, Elsie’s one thought was, would Alexander come for them in the afternoon? All day she watched the clock and the road with feverish anxiety. Oh! if papa had changed his mind,—had decided to let them stay for a week at Conic Section,—what should she do? It was just possible to worry through and keep alive till afternoon, she thought; but if they were forced to spend another night in that feather-bed, with those mosquitoes, hearing the blue shad rattle and quiver hour after hour,—she should die, she was sure she should die!

But Elsie was not called upon to die, or even to discover how easy it is to survive a little discomfort. About five, her anxious watch was rewarded by the appearance of a cloud of dust, out of which presently emerged old Whitey’s ears and the top of the well-known carryall. They stopped at the gate. There was Alexander, brisk and smiling, very glad to see his “little misses” again, and to find them so glad to go home. Mrs. Worrett, however, did not discover that they were glad; no indeed! Elsie and John were much too polite for that. They thanked the old lady, and said good-by so prettily that, after they were gone, she told Mr. Worrett that it hadn’t been a bit of trouble having them there, and she hoped they would come again; they enjoyed every thing so much; only it was a pity that Elsie looked so peaked. And at that very moment Elsie was sitting on the floor of the carryall, with her head in John’s lap, crying and sobbing for joy that the visit was over and that she was on the way home. “If only I live to get there,” she said, “I’ll never, no, never, go into the country again!” which was silly enough; but we must forgive her because she was half sick.

Ah, how charming home did look, with the family grouped in the shady porch, Katy in her white wrapper, Clover with rose-buds in her belt, and everybody ready to welcome and pet the little absentees! There was much hugging and kissing, and much to tell of what had happened in the two days: how a letter had come from Cousin Helen; how Daisy White had four kittens as white as herself; how Dorry had finished his water-wheel,—a wheel which turned in the bath-tub, and was “really ingenious,” papa said; and Phil had “swapped” one of his bantam chicks for on of Eugene Slack’s Bramapootras. It was not till they were all seated round the tea-table that anybody demanded an account of the visit. Elsie felt this a relief, and was just thinking how delicious every thing was, from the sliced peaches to the clinking ice in the milk-pitcher, when papa put the dreaded question,—

“Well, Elsie, so you decided to come, after all. How was it? Why didn’t you stay your week out? You look pale, it seems to me. Have you been enjoying yourself too much? Tell us all about it.”

Elsie looked at papa, and papa looked at Elsie. Dr. Carr’s eyes twinkled just a little, but otherwise he was perfectly grave. Elsie began to speak, then to laugh, then to cry, and the explanation, when it came, was given in a mingled burst of all three.

“O papa, it was horrid! That is, Mrs. Worrett was just as kind as could be, but so fat; and oh, such a pig! I never imagined such a pig! And the calico on that horrid sofa was so slippery that I rolled off five times, and once I hurt myself real badly. And we had a feather-bed; and I was so homesick that I cried all the evening.”

“That must have been gratifying to Mrs. Worrett,” put in Dr. Carr.

“Oh! she didn’t know it, papa. She was asleep, and snoring so that nobody could hear. And the flies!—such flies, Katy!—and the mosquitoes, and our window wouldn’t open till I put in a nail. I am so glad to get home! I never want to go into the country again, never, never! Oh, if Alexander hadn’t come!—why, Clover, what are you laughing for? And Dorry,—I think it’s very unkind,” and Elsie ran to Katy, hid her face, and began to cry.

“Never mind, darling, they didn’t mean to be unkind. Papa, her hands are quite hot; you must give her something.” Katy’s voice shook a little; but she would not hurt Elsie’s feeling by showing that she was amused. Papa gave Elsie “something” before she went to bed,— a very mild dose I fancy; for doctors’ little girls, as a general rule, do not take medicine, and next day she was much better. As the adventures of the Conic Section visit leaked out bit by bit, the family laughed till it seemed as if they would never stop. Phil was forever enacting the pig, standing on his triumphant hind legs, and patting Elsie’s head with his nose; and many and many a time, “It will end like your visit to Mrs. Worrett,” proved a useful check when Elsie was in a self-willed mood and bent on some scheme which for the moment struck her as delightful. For one of the good things about our childish mistakes is, that each one teaches us something; and so, blundering on, we grow wiser, till, when the time comes, we are ready to take our places among the wonderful grown-up people who never make mistakes.