"Good-morning, Mac!" he called blithely.
"How do you do?" The voice was a shade more subdued, to-day.
"Well. What are you doing?"
"Nofing much." The minor key was still evident.
"Are you sick?"
"No; 'course not."
"Playing Indian?"
Mac shook his head.
"What is the blanket for, then? It isn't cold, to-day."
The lips drooped, and the blue eyes peered out suspiciously from under
their long lashes.
"I wants to wear it," he said, with crushing dignity.
"All right. Come and walk to the corner fruit stand with me."
The invitation was too tempting to be refused, and Mac scrambled to his
feet. As he did so, the blanket slipped to one side. Swiftly Mac huddled
it around him again; but the momentary glimpse had sufficed to show the
stranger a dark blue gown and a white apron above it.
"Why, I thought you were a boy!" he gasped, too astonished at this sudden
transformation to pay any heed to Mac's probable feelings in the matter.
"So I are a boy."
"But you are wearing a dress."
Mac hung his head.
"I ran away," he faltered. "Vat's why."
The stranger tried to look grave. Instead, he burst into a shout
of laughter.
"I think I understand," he said, as soon as he could speak. "You have to
wear these clothes, because you ran away, and the blanket is to cover
them up. What made you run away?"
"Aunt Teddy.
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