The postman rapped at my door, and presently the trim little maid brought me a big square letter on a tray. I knew that hand. Nobody but Penelope writes in that scraggly style, plain, too, as a pikestaff, and easy to read. “Darling Gertrude,” she began, “I am about to plead for a visit. It seems a little bit of forever since I saw you and I want you here in my country house where we’ll have time to enjoy one another, talk of the past and present tenses to our hearts’ content, and perhaps plan a happy future.

“Let me tell you whom you’ll meet: Mr. and Mrs. Burkhardt,—you remember that sweet little girl bride who succeeded so well in blinding us—at first; dear old General Bolton, and his youngest brother, who paints almost as well as he talks; pretty Elsie Sterling and my cousin Bob. You see I put them together, but so would you if you could look out of my window and see them now. Bob has just mounted Elsie on White Baron, and now as I write the words he’s up on Caper and off they go. Well—we’ll borrow White Baron and Caper later on, you and I, and perhaps as we canter along side by side we may feel ourselves back again,—back—how many years? Never mind, we’ll not count. The years have been happy to us both, I hope.

“But you’ll come—you must not say no, remember. Cordially your friend,

Indeed I would not say “No.” I would arrange and rearrange my summer plans to meet Penelope once more.

It was scarce three years since I last saw her. She was then a bride of but two months and I spent three days with her just as I was leaving for Germany. During the interval our letters were more or less frequent, and so in a way we each kept track of the other and felt as close friends as we had been since our childhood.

So it was with infinite pleasure I wrote an acceptance.

“The Maples” is an unpretending rambling sort of a house, with piazzas, and “corners,” and nooks where one would least expect them. There is no rhyme or reason to the architecture, and an architect would shake his head in sad consternation. However, if he were told that three generations of Gerards had idled their summers happily away within and without its walls, and that each owner had added his share to the original pile, perhaps the exact architect would turn his critical smile to one of content and count himself fortunate to be allowed to enter this abode of happiness.

It was a sunny day when I first drove up the long maple-lined driveway and there on the lawn, close to the entrance, was Penelope making tea and laughing one of her old merry laughs as the General stood before her. I suppose he was telling her one of his funny stories. I don’t know, for of course I only saw them a moment before the carriage stopped, and once more Penelope and I were together.

The General had known us both as girls, and soon we were talking over old faces and scenes, and it seemed as though we had never been parted. The rest of the party had gone for a long drive and would not be back until seven o’clock. So we three talked on and on.

“Oh, it does seem so good to be here, Pen,” I said, and added, “As I came up the driveway, the first thing I heard was your laugh. You know how mamma used to like to hear you laugh.”

“Yes, I remember how irrepressible I was. But, Trudy, you too would have laughed if you’d heard the General hang me.”

“Hang you?”

“Why, yes. Don’t you know the game?” Then seeing my bewilderment, she went on. “You must learn it. It’s fine for two people. Especially when one gets short of subjects to talk about.”

Here General Bolton threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Short of subjects to talk about! I guess Trudy would as soon believe the Atlantic had gone dry as to think your nimble tongue was ever still. No, indeed! On the contrary, Trudy, she was bound she would make me let out a secret, and I, old fool, would probably have fallen into her trap, only she warned me by—but never mind how she warned me, or even that will fail me next time. So I hung her. Yes, I caught her well.” Then with a chuckle. “Tell her how, Pen, you know best how, for you know you were hung, and well hung.” And again he laughed.

“That’s true. But try me again sometime, or rather, I’ll try you and we’ll see who does the hanging. No, not now, you need not look so eager.”

“Bah, you’re afraid.”

“No, indeed I am not. Just now however I mean to take Gertrude and show her where her room is. She has been ever so patient.”

“But, my dear, please explain first about the hanging. It sounds so sanguinary.”

“Well, it is. Now listen and I’ll explain, and then we’ll go indoors. ‘To hang a person with a word,’ is the name of the game. You take any word you like in your mind and simply mention the number of letters it has. The other party has to guess, by letters, without making twelve misses. If she fails to guess without twelve wrong guesses, she is hung as I was. That doesn’t seem very clear to you, I suppose.”

“Well, not exactly.”

“I’ll take a word and show you. Now, General, I did not mean to give you your battle now. But you may have it if you’re ready.”

“Steady, fire.”

“All right.” Then she whispered to me the word “Eyelet.”

“Well, I’ll hang you, General Bolton, with a word of six letters.”

“Bah, that’s easy. First, I’ll guess L.”

“Right. It has fourth place.” Then she explained to me, “You have to tell the position of the letter.”

“M.”

“Wrong. That’s one. You help me keep count, Trudy. Remember, twelve wrong guesses and I’ve hung him.”

“A.”

“Wrong. That makes two.”

“E.”

“Right. First place.”

“I.”

“Wrong. Three.”

“O.”

“Wrong. You see he’s trying the vowels. How many does that make?”

“Four.”

“Oh, you girls need not look so jubilant; four doesn’t make much. I’ll guess U, next.”

“Five,” we both shouted.

“Well, T.”

“Right, and sixth place.”

“An e, an l, and a t. Let me see. Any n’s in it?”

“No. That makes six. Oh, we have you, General, that is half the number.”

“The battle is not won yet; no, nor lost yet. Well, I’ll guess G.”

“Seven.”

He looked down at the grass and drummed his fingers on his knee, then said, “D.”

“Eight.”

“An e, an l, and a t. That’s a queer combination when all the other vowels are out. Holloa! Is there another e?”

“Yes. Third place.”

“Oh, and another l?”

“Nine.”

“I hope this word is in the English language?”

“Oh, yes. It is English and it is used to-day, but a generation back it was used more frequently.”

“A generation back! Bah!” and he straightened himself and rising strode back and forth with his hands clasped back of him. “I have it! That is, I am pretty certain. Has a y, hasn’t it?”

“Yes—second place.”

“Eyelet!” he shouted. “Bah, you thought you had me. Well, you almost did. Those pesky vowels were at fault.”

“Never mind, I’ll hang you yet. I have another word in mind. But not to-day. Come, Gertrude. You see it all now, I guess, and we must hurry in, or Will and the others will be back before we are ready for dinner. Good-bye for a time, General. Look to your guns. I shall be after you again.”

II.

Breakfast was more than half over, some mornings later, when in came Bob and Irving Bolton. A chorus of “Fie, fie,” greeted them, and Elsie Sterling shook her fingers threateningly as Bob explained, “Pen, don’t be hard on a fellow. Irving and I talked too late, I suppose, last night. At any rate I know I should never have turned up this morning only that he yelled across to me that lunch was most ready. And then he loitered to help me share the blame of our lateness. Hey, old fellow?” and he looked across at Irving as he slid into the vacant place between Elsie and Mrs. Burkhardt.

“You are both rascals, both of you,” growled the General. “Burkhardt and I have been up hours and have planned the finest sort of a day for the rest of you ungrateful ones. Shall we tell them, Burkhardt?”

Before Mr. Burkhardt had a chance to reply, Penelope interposed, “Let me try and guess.”

“All right, Mrs. Gerard, but you’ll have to try twenty questions or some such game or you’ll not hit it. It’s a fine scheme.” And Ned Burkhardt nodded triumphantly while he put a piece of buttered toast on his wife’s plate.

“I’ll guess just once, and without the help of twenty questions either. It’s a picnic.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the General. “You overheard, or somebody told you.”

“Perhaps I did, or perhaps that omnipresent ‘little bird’ chirped it in my ear. But, at any rate, it’s a fine idea. What say the rest of you?”

“Just the thing. Fine,” was the reply.

“How shall we go, Will, and where?”

“Oh, let’s go to Sylvan Grove. It is only ten miles. Let me see. Two of you can ride horseback.

“Will you and Irving ride, Gertrude? And, Burkhardt, you and madame and Elsie and Bob might take the buckboard, and we three old fogies—pardon me, General,—will follow on with the provisions. Will that suit, Penel?”

“All right. And now let’s get ready. Can you all start in three quarters of an hour?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Promptly we all sallied forth, and it was a merry party. The air was perfect, and Irving, Bolton and I cantered on ahead, and finding ourselves far in advance, we turned and rode across country for a few miles.

It was a perfect day, and the picnic was a perfect success. At dinner that night we voted it as the best day yet.

“Well, to-morrow is the golf tournament, you know,” said Will, and turning to his wife, he added, “Didn’t you say there was a dinner on too?”

“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. Dear old Mrs. Preston asked us all to dinner.” Turning towards me she said, “You remember at our tea, the day after you came, a white-haired lady accompanied by her granddaughter?”

“Yes, indeed I do. I think you said she lives in that gray stone house we passed to-day.”

“Yes, that is the one. It’s a lovely house too—and such china! Why, Mrs. Burkhardt, she has a willow set that would make your mouth water. Perhaps we’ll see it.”

Then turning swiftly, for dinner was over and we were just leaving the room, “Listen, all of you, please. To-morrow night at Mrs. Preston’s, and next night nowhere. It is Gertrude’s last night here and let’s spend it all alone,” and having made her little speech she slipped her arm around my waist and we went out together.

We passed through one of the French windows, out on the piazza, and sat there late into the night. Snatches of conversation came to us again and again, and Mrs. Burkhardt’s sweet soprano as she and Elsie sang together, while Irving accompanied on the mandoline. But we, Penelope and I, remained alone, each happy in the other.

The last night came, as all “last nights” must, and with it, “in sympathy with our mood,” was the General’s courteous construction, came a heavy, moaning storm. Will poked the fire and piled on the logs as though a blizzard were raging without. Finally, he paused and said, “I guess, Pen, dear, you may have your wish. No one will disturb our family serenity this night.”

How cosy it seemed and how happy all appeared. Elsie and Mrs. Burkhardt, Irving and Bob were playing checkers in the next room. Ned and Penelope were talking about dogs and horses and comparing their relative intelligence. The General was looking over some foreign photographs, while Will and I bestowed our attention on the fire.

“Truly,” spoke General Bolton, “did you ever get up early enough to see Covent Garden Market in its glory!”

“Oh, General, do you mean to infer absolute laziness, or do you mean that the gray gloom of London would forbid an early awakening?”

“Never mind what I inferred. Did you ever go to the market—early?”

“Strange as it may seem to you, I did. I went one morning to Covent Garden Market, and early, about six o’clock, with an English girl. It was a wonderful sight.”

“See,” he interrupted, “it was this picture of a costermonger with the palms and ferns that made me ask you.”

“It is very natural—the little donkey, the barrow and all. And how very cheap the plants and flowers are—why that morning I bought for sixpence as many moss roses and buds as I could carry.”

“Gertrude, did you ever see that?” And Will gave me a printed slip that he had been searching for in his pocketbook. It was called the Floral Test.

“No, but isn’t it good? Let’s ask the others the questions and see who can answer the most.”

“Come, all you people,” called Will, and he stepped over to the next room. “Aren’t you tired of checkers? Gertrude has a new game.”

When all were seated around expectantly he said: “Now, Gertrude, you ask the questions and we’ll reply. It is called,” he explained, “the Floral Test. She’ll ask questions and we’ll give answers in the names of flowers.”

“Tell me the name of a maiden, and the color of her hair.”

“Maria-gold,” shouted Irving.

“Good for you, old fellow. How did you know?” questioned Bob.

“O here,” and young Bolton tapped his forehead significantly.

“What adjective fitted her and what was her brother’s name?”

All were silent until Mrs. Burkhardt timidly said, “Is it Sweet-William?”

“That’s right. Now try this,—What was his favorite sport in winter?”

“That’s easy. Snowball,” and Bob threw his handkerchief at Will, who sharply returned it.

“Ned, what was his favorite instrument?”

“Is it the trumpet?”

“That is right. Can you tell me, Elsie, at what hour he awoke his father by playing on it?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Yes, and what did his father apply to him?”

“A golden-rod,” two or three shouted.

“What office did his father occupy in the church?”

All seemed puzzled. Finally Elsie said, “Was it elder?”

“Right. What was the young man’s name, and what did he write it with?”

“That is a poser, Trudy. You’ll have to tell them, I guess,” suggested Will.

“Jonquil, don’t you see?”

“Bah!” exclaimed the General, while the others laughed.

“Irving, what candy do you usually buy?”

“He doesn’t know,” said Will, “but wait a moment and I’ll show you some,” and he went to a closet and brought back a box of buttercups.

“Well, what did John do when he popped the question?”

“Aster,” yelled the General.

“That is correct, General. See if you can tell what ghastly trophy he offered her.”

“Oh, that is easy. A bleeding heart.”

“Well, what did she say as John knelt before her?”

“Why, Johnny-jump-up, of course.”

“That’s right. You are fine at this game, General. Can you tell me what minister married them?”

“Oh, Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” exclaimed Penelope.

“What did she wear in her hair?”

“Bridal-wreath.”

“What flowers bloomed in her cheeks?”

“Roses.”

“What did John say when obliged to leave her for a time?”

“Forget-me-not.”

“That is all. It is a fine game, Will. Where did you find it?”

“Oh, I came across it in a paper, and I know Pen likes that sort of thing, so I cut it out. But I forgot all about it until you two were talking over Covent Garden and the early market.”

“I think I can add one to that list of questions,” and Penelope arose and, drawing me up by the hand, said, “What flower should we put in the candle tray at night?”

“Poppy,” came the quick reply, and Bob quoted,

“—— oh, I say, Pen,” he called, as we were on the stairs, “what shall we all do when Gertrude leaves us?”

“Do you mean that as a Floral Test question?”

“Yes.”

“I know what I’ll do, but I don’t know any flower or plant to describe it.”

“Why, Penelope, we’ll all balsam.”