"NOW," said Mrs. Crane, with a note of pride in her tone, "I want to show you what Peter Black's been doing this time. It's in the library."

The interested girls followed Mrs. Crane into the cozy, book-lined room. Mr. Black's purchases were apt to be worth seeing, for, now that he had a family after so many years of solitude, he was spending his money lavishly. And he delighted in surprising his elderly sister with unusual gifts.

"There," said Mrs. Crane, pointing to a square cabinet of polished wood. "What do you think of that! Can you guess what it is?"

"I think," replied Jean, "it's a cupboard for your very prettiest tea-cups—the ones that are too nice to use."

"I think," said Marjory, "that it's a fire-proof safe to keep Rosa Marie's plaid dress in, so it won't set the house afire."

"I guess," said Bettie, "it's some sort of a refrigerator to use on Sundays only."

"It looks to me," ventured Mabel, "like a cage with a monkey in it. I've seen them in processions, only they were fancier."

"I know what it is," said Henrietta, "because we have one like it, but ours isn't as nice as this."

"Now turn your backs," requested Mrs. Crane.

In another moment the girls were listening to a delightful concert. Wonderful music was pouring from the polished cabinet.

"I was the nearest right," asserted Mabel.

"Why!" objected Bettie, "you said it was a monkey—monkeys don't sing."

"I was right, just the same. It's a hand organ, and everybody knows that a monkey's pretty near the same thing."

The girls laughed, for Mabel, who was usually wrong, always insisted obstinately that she was right.

"It's a phonograph," explained Henrietta, "and the very best one I ever heard."

"It's a whole brass band," breathed Bettie.

"I knew it was good," said Mrs. Crane, contentedly, "for Peter refused to tell what he paid for it."

It took a long time for the phonograph to give up all that was inside its polished case, and before the entertainment was quite over Mr. Black came in.

Bettie, eager to display her new acquaintance, hardly waited to greet him before introducing Henrietta. It was a pleasure, as well as a novelty, to have so attractive a friend to present.

"This," said Bettie, proudly but a little flustered, "is my hen, Frenriet—I mean, my hen——"

Bettie turned scarlet and stopped. The girls shrieked with delight. Mrs. Crane laughed till she cried. Mr. Black's roars of laughter drowned the phonograph's best effort.

"I'm not your hen," giggled Henrietta. "Not even your chicken. This settles that name—I can't risk being mistaken for any more poultry."

"She's Henrietta Bedford," explained Jean, wiping her eyes.

"And how long," teased Mr. Black, "have you been keeping poultry, Miss Bettykins?"

"About two weeks," giggled Bettie. "She's Mrs. Slater's granddaughter."

"I don't like to seem inhospitable," said Mr. Black, a few moments later, "but it's beginning to snow, and the weather's going to be a good deal worse before it gets any better. If you start now, you'll be home before the snow begins to drift—there's a strong north wind and the thermometer's a bit down-hearted."

The girls had removed their wraps and it took time to get into them. Also, Mrs. Crane, noticing that the girls were dressed for mild weather, detained them while she hunted up a silk handkerchief to wrap about Marjory's throat, a veil to tie over Bettie's ears and some warmer gloves for Jean. Henrietta and Mabel refused to be bundled up.

The outside air was many degrees colder than it had been two hours earlier, and was full of flying snow. The wind came in gusts, yet there was something bracing and stimulating about the stirring atmosphere, particularly to Henrietta.

"Oh!" cried she, "this is fine! Why can't we take a long walk? It's a shame to hurry home. I just love this. Isn't there somebody we can go to see? Hasn't anybody an errand?"

"Ye-es," said Mabel, doubtfully. "We could go down to Mrs. Malony's. Mother told me this morning to get her bill, and I forgot all about it."

"Mabel always has a few forgotten errands laid away," teased Marjory. "She can show you, too, where she found Rosa Marie—it's down that way."

"I hope," said Henrietta, making a comical grimace, "that there's no danger of finding any more like her. But let's go. It's a shame to miss any of this."

Going down the long hill toward Mrs. Malony's was entirely delightful, for the wind, of which there was a great deal, was at their well-protected backs; they fairly scudded before it, laughing joyously as they were swept along almost on a run. Going westward at the bottom of the hill was not so very bad either, for here the road was somewhat sheltered, though the snow was much deeper than the girls had expected to find it.

Mrs. Malony, the garrulous egg-woman, was at home; she expressed her surprise and delight at the advent of so many unexpected visitors.

"'Tis mesilf thot's glad to see so manny purty faces," said she, flying about to find chairs. "'Tis the lovely complexion you have to-day, Miss Jean. An' who's the little lady wid the rosy cheek? The gran'choild av Mrs. Lady Slater—wud ye hark to thot now! An' how's Bettie darlin' wid all her purty smiles? Thot's good—thot's good. An' Miss Mabel here—sure she's the fat wan——"

"Mother," explained Mabel, with dignity, "would like her egg-bill."

"Bill, is ut?" replied Mrs. Malony, graciously. "Sure there's no hurry at all, at all. The sooner it comes the sooner 'tis spint. Ah, well, if you're afther insistin' [no one had insisted] joost count the banes in me owld taypot. Ivery wan stands fer wan dozen eggs at twinty-foive cints the dozen."

"Thirteen beans," announced Jean, who had counted them several times to make certain.

"Sure," persuaded smooth-tongued Mrs. Malony, "you'd best be takin' wan more dozen, Miss Mabel. 'Twould be sore unlucky to stop wid t'irteen."

While she was counting the eggs, Mr. Malony, redolent of the stable and bearing two steaming pails of milk, came into the kitchen. Mrs. Malony, beaming with hospitality, went hastily to the cupboard, brought forth five exceedingly thick cups, filled them with milk and passed them to her dismayed guests.

Some persons like warm milk, fresh from the cow, with the cow-smell overshadowing all other flavors. Mrs. Malony's visitors did not. They were too polite to say so, however, so there they sat, five martyrs to courtesy, sipping the distasteful milk. It clogged their throats, it made them feel queerly upset inside, but still, solely out of politeness, they continued to sip.

"Take bigger swallows," advised Mabel, in a smothered whisper.

"I cuk—can't," breathed Bettie.

Mr. Malony had left the room. Presently, Mrs. Malony, in search of a basket for the eggs, stooped to rummage in the untidy recess beneath the cupboard. Quick as a wink, Henrietta emptied her cup into the original pail, but the other unfortunates were left to struggle with their unwelcome refreshment. Henrietta, however, gained nothing by her trick, for the egg-woman, discovering that her cup was empty, promptly refilled it, much to the amusement of the other victims.

Henrietta, discovering their state of mind, was moved to defiance. Lifting her cup, with a determined glint in her black eyes, she drank every drop in four courageous, continuous gulps. In a twinkling, the other girls had imitated her example and were declining Mrs. Malony's pressing offer of more milk.

"Joost a wee sup," pleaded Mrs. Malony, reaching for Jean's cup.

"No, thank you," said Jean, rising hastily. "We ought to be getting home."

Getting home, however, proved a different matter from getting away from home. After escaping Mrs. Malony's insistent hospitality, the girls waded across the snowy street and out toward the point to see if Rosa Marie's home were still there. The door hung from one hinge and snow had drifted, and was still drifting, in at the doorway.

"Do you think," asked Henrietta, gazing at the deserted house, "that Rosa Marie's mother will ever come back?"

"No," returned Jean.

"Not to any such homely baby as that," declared Marjory.

"She will come back," asserted Mabel, loyally. "She loved Rosa Marie—I saw it in her eyes."

"Looks don't matter, with mothers," soothed Bettie. "A cat likes a homely yellow kitten as well as a lovely white one. And Dick has more freckles than Bob, but Mother likes him just as well."

"Rosa Marie's mother stood right in that doorway," said Mabel, "and, as long as I could see her, her eyes were stretching out after Rosa Marie."

"They must have stuck out on pegs like a lobster's," giggled Henrietta, "by the time you reached the corner."

"I think you're mean," muttered Mabel.

"I repent," apologized Henrietta. "For a moment I relapsed into Frederika, the Disguised Duchess; but now I'm your own kind-hearted Sallie and I wish that my toes were as warm as my affections. Let's start for civilization—we seem to have the world to ourselves. Doesn't anybody else like snow, I wonder?"