and the other "too mean to live," and that "they'd never speak again."

In a minute or two after, they were talking as lively as two young magpies. They had figuratively kissed and made up.

"Now," said Julia, "I'm going to draw the portcullis so we can never go down unless some one comes to release us."

"I don't care to stay here always."

"We're only playing, goosie, but you have to stay until morning because you promised."

After that one thrust, Julia relented and tried to be as nice as she possibly could, and Beth had such a good time that her conscience stopped troubling her.

The minutes pa.s.sed so quickly that they both were surprised to see how low the sun was. The captive ladies decided it was time to eat supper, so they divided supplies, using their laps as tables.

Beth, the unfortunate, had not taken a mouthful when a great pinching bug dropped on her head. She jumped to her feet screaming, and her supper was all scattered to the ground. She decided to go after it.

"Where are you going, Beth?"

"After my supper."

"But the portcullis is drawn."

"I'm going to have my supper, portcullis or no portcullis."

Already it was growing so dark that objects were becoming indistinguishable. Suddenly Beth uttered a cry.

"What's the matter?"

"I,--I thought it was a bear. It's only Don, however, and he's eaten up all my supper, the mean thing, and now he's run away."

"Never mind, Beth. You can have half of mine."

They ate their scanty meal in silence. It was growing so dark that immediately after supper they went to bed.

Neither of the children felt comfortable, but neither would own it.

"Isn't this heaps of fun, Beth?"

"Yes, heaps, Julia."

Then each of them let a great sigh escape. Silence prevailed for awhile. All the world seemed asleep. Such stillness was terrifying to the children.

"Are you asleep, Julia?"

"No, but I thought you were."

Again they were quiet until it had grown pitch dark.

"I can't sleep."

"Neither can I, but it's fun, isn't it?"

"It's a sperience, Julia."

Again two great sighs, and then quiet once more.

Suddenly, there was a hoot right above them. Julia and Beth both gave such a start that they almost tumbled out of the tree. Then two scared whispers were heard:

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

Another hoot.

"I wish we were together, Julia."

"So do I. Say, Beth, I believe there's room for you here with me.

Let's try it."

"I'm afraid to come."

"Don't be a 'fraid cat."

"I'm not, only----" For the third time that melancholy hoot above them.

"Julia, come to me."

"I won't do it. I spoke first You come here."

Solitude was so terrifying that Beth risked the trip across for companionship. Fortunately, the hoot did not occur during her trip to Julia, or she would probably have landed on the ground.

The s.p.a.ce proved rather narrow, and rather perilous for two, but Beth and Julia snuggled together very close.

Soon the hooting began again, and continued at regular intervals.

"I believe it's a hoot-owl."

"So it is."

Although they knew it was only an owl, the melancholy cry was neither conducive to sleep nor to high spirits. The children found it decidedly depressing. They talked awhile in whispers. The sound of one's own voice even is startling in such a situation. Very often they sighed, and sometimes there was a pensive quietness broken only by the hoot-owl.

"What time do you s'pose it is, Julia?"

"I think it must be twelve at least. They're not coming for us to-night. They've forgotten us."

Their parents had not forgotten them, but when meal-time came and they did not appear, the Davenports supposed they were over at the Gordons', and the Gordons thought they were at the Davenports'. The children often stayed for meals without asking, and so neither family worried.

About half-past eight the Gordons decided to go and bring Julia home.

When they walked in at the Davenports, the first question asked them was: