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 indulging somewhat noisily in an amusement suspiciously like baseball. Of course it couldn't be baseball, as Laurie pointed out, since the town laws sternly forbade that game on Sundays. At the further corner of Pine Street a small white house with faded brown shutters stood sedately behind a leafless and overgrown hedge of lilac. The twins viewed the house with new interest, for it was there that Miss Comfort lived. Ned thought that through a gap in the hedge he had glimpsed a face behind one of the front windows.

"Reckon this is her last Sunday in the old home," observed Ned. It sounded flippant, and probably he had meant that it should, but inside him he felt very sorry for the little old lady. It was not much of a house, as houses went even in Orstead, but it was home to Miss Comfort, and Ned suddenly felt the pathos of the impending departure.

Laurie grunted assent as they turned the corner toward the little blue painted shop. "Guess we aren't going to hear from the Goop," he said. "It's three days now."

"We—ell, he might be away or something," answered Ned.