"Oh, dear," sighed Polly, for she felt that if Evangeline were to come often, she would spoil much of the visit that, without her, would be so pleasant.

"We'll be out sometimes," said Rose, "for Aunt Rose will take us about, and we're to go to the studio some day when Aunt Lois goes. I've been there, and the pictures are lovely, and some days we shall drive, and then if she comes she won't find us."

"If she'll come on the days that we're OUT, and stay away the days that we're at home, it will be just FINE!"

"Oh, Rose, I believed it's naughty, but I would be glad if it happened, just HAPPENED that way," Polly said.

CHAPTER IV

THE VILLAGE NUISANCE

At Sherwood Hall Polly was greatly missed, and her playmates felt less interest in their games now that she was not with them.

In all the village there was no one so lonely as Aunt Judith. She missed the merry chatter of happy, cheery Rose. Bright, and merry she had been, even although there were many things that she longed for, and could not have, most of all, some one to love her.

Now, as Aunt Judith busied herself about the cottage, or out in the tiny garden, she realized how much the child's hands had helped.

"She used to dust for me," she would say to herself, as she moved about the tiny sitting room, putting it in order.

"She always fed the chickens," she murmured, one morning, on her way out to the coop.

She stooped to open the door, when a shrill voice shouted at her.

"Look out! Look out! The ol' rooster's mad!"

Aunt Judith was startled, and Gyp was delighted.

"Why were you meddling with the hens?" she asked, in quick wrath.

"Don't hurt 'em to be watched, does it?" was the saucy answer.

Aunt Judith looked at the imp-like figure astride the fence.

"You're a nuisance!" she cried, "I wish the town was rid of you!" "Ding- te-ding-te-dingle-te-ding!" sang Gyp, in an almost ear-splitting solo.

"Ding-te-ding--I tell ye what, if ye put jest the tip of yer finger between them slats, that 'ere ol' rooster 'll bite it almost off'n yer!" he remarked, "I know, 'cause I TRIED it."

"You keep your fingers away from the coop, and yourself out of my yard," cried Aunt Judith, "or I'll have you arrested."

"Wow!" shrieked Gyp, and slipping from the fence, he ran to the woods, lest Aunt Judith should immediately put her threat into effect.

The one, and only thing that Gyp feared was a policeman.

A wild little ragamuffin, living in an old hut that was home only in name, with parents as ignorant as himself, he was viewed with contempt by every child in the town, and feared by them, as well.

There was nothing that he dared not do--if no policeman were in sight.

It was well known by everyone that when Gyp once became interested in anything, he would not let it alone until something occurred that he thought more attractive.

Aunt Judith, shading her eyes with her hand, waited until she felt sure that Gyp did not intend to return. Then locking the door, and closing the windows, she made her way down the avenue toward the parsonage.

She felt unusually lonely, and the parson's wife was always glad to see her.

The walk was a long one, and when Aunt Judith had reached the parsonage, she paused for a moment to enjoy the light breeze before opening the little gate. "I saw you coming," said a pleasant voice, "and I guess you felt the heat on the way. Come in, and sit down under the big maple trees. It's cooler than it is in the house."

As she spoke, the parson's wife took Aunt Judith's arm, and led her to a rustic seat, and seating herself beside her, commenced to talk of bits of parish news.

Aunt Judith's mind was far away with Rose, and her answers became more, and more wide of the mark.

"I think the boys of the choir sing BEAUTIFULLY," chirped the little woman, "but they really should have new cotta's, but the society feels that it really can't afford it."

"Yes'm," said Aunt Judith.

"And there are some that think we ought to have an organist. Mrs. Bingley volunteers to play until we're able to hire some one, but she isn't much of a player. She says she can't play any music unless it's written in ONE flat. She says it's the only key she knows. She says two flats make her uneasy, but THREE flats makes her simply WILD!"

"Well, if I DON'T let them out of the coop they'll be sick, and if I DO let them out, they're likely to get lost."

The parson's wife stared uneasily at Aunt Judith. Then thinking that she must have been needlessly startled, she again spoke.

"As I said before, what makes her WILD is three flats," she said.

"But the chicken-coop is ALL slats," said Aunt Judith, "what DO you mean by THREE?"

"Don't you feel well?" the little woman asked anxiously, leaning toward Aunt Judith, and looking up into her shrewd face.

"Why, yes," Aunt Judith replied, "only I'm lonesome without Rose, and some anxious about the hens."

A sigh of relief escaped the other woman's lips, but she did not explain.

"She's so worried about her own affairs that she simply didn't notice what I was talking about," she thought.

Realizing that Aunt Judith's mind was so full of her own interests that, for the time, she could think of nothing else, she dropped church matters, and asked when she had heard from Rose.

And while in the cool shade of the large trees, they talked of the tiny cottage, its garden, the chickens, and most of all, Rose, matters near the hen-coop were becoming rather lively.

Aunt Judith watching to see if Gyp intended to return, did not dream that he was watching her.

He saw her enter the cottage, and waited until she left the house to saunter down the avenue.

Then he ran across the little open field from the wood, and, crouching behind the back fence, near the coop, again waited until he felt sure that she was not simply in the house of some neighbor, but, instead, had gone to the "square."

Then springing over the fence like a monkey, he told a few facts to the old rooster.

"Ye're a mean ol' thing!" he cried, "jest a mean ol' critter ter bite a feller's finger like ye did mine. I'll pay yer fer what ye done! Look at this, an' see how ye like it!"

At that moment, and to the utter astonishment of the rooster, and his family, Gyp sprang up and down in a series of wild jumps, shouting, and yelling to the limit of his strength.

"Yow-ow! Hoope-high-jinks!" shrieked Gyp, his wiry arms, and legs flying in more directions than seemed possible, his shoes, that were many sizes too large for him, clattering on the hard-trodden earth of the hen-yard.

"How-re-ow-re-owl!" he roared, dodging this way, and that, in order to keep directly in front of the frightened rooster.

The rooster ducked, and dodged in vain, for Gyp managed to do his outrageous dance exactly in front of him, wherever he might be.

The hens kept up a perpetual squawking, and ran wildly about, while the downy chicks huddled in fear under the huge leaves of a burdock plant, and uttered little frightened peeps that, however, were unheard in the din that Gyp and the hens created.

Then suddenly something happened.

With a wild whoop, and an extra high jump, he lost his balance, and fell against the little gate.

He was not hurt, but he was surprised, and, for a moment, sat absolutely still, while the hens, led by the big rooster, ran over him, and out into the field beyond.

"I s'pose she'll say I let 'em out. I DID, an' I DIDN'T!" he said with a chuckle.

"Long's they're out, they might as well have a good run for once," he cried, and shouting "Shoo! Shoo!" and brandishing his arms, he rushed after them.

When he had tired of chasing the hens, he hurried away to the other end of the avenue, with the bright idea of learning if there might be a chance for mischief there.

A fine kite disappeared from Harry Grafton's lawn, a ball that Rob Lindsey had been playing with could not be found, while at Sherwood Hall