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“Anne! Anne Berkley!” Peter’s indignant voice interrupted Anne from upstairs, calling over the banisters.

“Yes, Peter-two,” said little Anne, getting down from Kit’s lap and going serenely toward the door.

“Who let out all the hens? I’ll bet I know!” growled Peter.

“Oh, yes; so do I,” said little Anne. “It was me, Petey, but they didn’t go away. They stayed around; I watched ’em—a while.”

“Yes, a while!” Peter scorned her. “How long? Didn’t father say I had no business to keep hens in town, and I’d have to give ’em up if they annoyed the neighbours? They’re annoying them all right, all right! Over at Davis’s next door scratching up the last lettuce leaf this minute, and all their peas done for! Now dad’ll make me sell ’em, after I’ve bought feed at the price it was all winter, and now it’s spring and the hens were going to pay back some of it! And I was going to set ’em!”

“And have dear little fluffy chicks? I know, Peter dear; you told me,” cried Anne with feeling. “Oh, you don’t think father’ll be so cruel as to stop us?”