A Flock of Girls and Boys | Page 9

you want me to read this for?" she asked Agnes.
"What did I want you to read it for? Is it possible that you don't
see,--that you don't understand?"
"Understand what? We don't know these Smithsons."
"But we do know these--Smiths."
"Agnes, you don't mean--"

"Yes, I do mean that I believe--that I am sure that these Smiths are
those very identical Smithsons."
"Oh, Agnes, what makes you think so? Smith is such a very common
name, you know."
"Yes, I know it; but here is a girl whose name is Smith, and she is with
a Mrs. Smith, her aunt, and they are staying at a summer resort near
Boston. How does that fit?"
"Oh, Agnes, it does look like--as if it must be, doesn't it?" cried Dora,
in a sort of shuddering enjoyment of the sensational situation.
"Of course it does. I knew I was right about those people. I knew there
was something queer and mysterious about them. And what do you
think,--only yesterday I happened to go into the little parlor, where
there are writing-materials, and there sat this very Peggy Smith
directing a letter; and when she went out, I happened to cast my eyes at
the blotting-pad she had used, and I couldn't help reading--for it was
just as plain as print--the last part of the address, and it was--'South
America'!"
CHAPTER IV.
"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" said Tilly Morris, indignantly, as
Dora wound up her recital of the Smithson-Smith story.
"Well, you can believe it or not; but I don't see how you can help
believing, when you remember that their name is Smith, and that they
are aunt and niece, and that the niece is fourteen or fifteen,--just as the
paper said,--and that they are staying at a summer resort not far from
Boston, and--that the niece writes to some one in South
America,--think of that!"
Tilly thought, and, flushing scarlet as she thought, she burst out,--
"Well, I don't care, I don't care. I'm not going to talk about it, either.
How many people have you--has Amy--has Agnes told?"

"I haven't told anybody but you yet. I've just come from Agnes."
"Yet! Now, look here, let me tell you something, Dora. My father, you
know, is a lawyer, and I've heard him talk a great deal when we've had
company at dinner about queer things that people did and said,--queer
things, I mean, that got them into lawsuits. One of the things that I
particularly remember was a case where a woman told things that she
had heard and things that she had fancied against a neighbor, and the
neighbor went to law about it, prosecuted the woman for slander, and
they had a horrid time. The woman's daughters had to go into court and
be examined as witnesses. Oh, it was horrid; and the worst of it was
that even though there was some truth in the stories, there were things
that were not true,--exaggerations, you know,--and so the woman was
declared guilty, and her husband had to pay a lot of money to keep her
out of prison. There was ever so much more that I've forgotten; but I
recollect papa's turning to us children at the end, and saying, 'Now,
children, remember when you are repeating things that you have heard
against people, that the next thing you'll know you may be prosecuted
for what you've said, and have to answer for it in the law courts.'"
Dora looked scared. "Well, I'm sure," she began, "I haven't repeated
this to anybody but you; and if Agnes--"
"What's that about me?" suddenly interrupted Agnes herself, as she
came up behind the two girls. Dora began to explain, and then called
upon Tilly to repeat her story of the lawsuit.
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" cried Agnes, angrily, after hearing this story; "you
can't frighten me that way, Tilly Morris. We can't be prosecuted for
telling facts that are already in the newspapers."
"But we can be for what isn't. It isn't in the newspapers that this Mrs.
Smith and her niece are these Smithsons."
"Well, Tilly Morris, I should think it was in the newspapers about as
plain as could be. What do you say to this sentence?" And Agnes pulled
from her pocket the Smithson article she had cut out, and read aloud:
"'An older child--a daughter of fourteen or fifteen--was left behind in

this country with Smithson's brother's widow, who has also taken the
name of Smith. They are staying at a summer resort not far from
Boston;' and what do you say to that letter addressed to some place in
South America?"
"I say that--that--all this might mean somebody else, and not--not
these--our--my Smiths. What did your mother say when you told her,
and showed the paper to