“You may go on those errands, Hortense, but first send Polly Pepper to me,” commanded Mrs. Chatterton sharply.

The French maid paused in the act of hanging up a gown. “I will re-quest her, Madame. I should not like to send Mees Polly Peppaire.”

“Miss Polly Pepper!” Mrs. Chatterton was guilty of stamping her foot. “Are you mad? I am speaking of Polly Pepper, this country girl, who is as poor and low-born here in this house, as if in her little brown house, wherever that may be.”

Hortense shrugged her shoulders, and hung up the gown.

“Has Madame any further commands for me?” she asked, coming up to her mistress.

“Yes; be sure to get the velvet at Lemaire's, and take back the silk kimono. I will send to New York for one.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“That is all—besides the other errands. Now go.” She dismissed her with a wave of her shapely hand. “But first, as I bade you, send Polly Pepper to me.”

Hortense, with another elevation of her shoulders, said nothing, till she found herself the other side of the door. Then she shook her fist at it.

“It ees not Miss Polly who will be sent for; it ees Madame who will be sent out of dees house, j'ai peur—ha, ha, ha!”

She laughed softly to herself all the way downstairs, with an insolent little fling to her head, that boded ill for her mistress's interests.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Chatterton was angrily pacing up and down the room. “What arrant nonsense a man can be capable of when he is headstrong to begin with! To think of the elegant Horatio King, a model for all men, surrounding himself with this commonplace family. Faugh! It is easy enough to see what they are all after. But I shall prevent it. Meanwhile, the only way to do it is to break the spirit of this Polly Pepper. Once do that, and I have the task easy to my hand.”

She listened intently. “It can't be possible she would refuse to come. Ha! I thought so.”

Polly came quietly in. No one to see her face would have supposed that she had thrown aside the book she had been waiting weeks to read, so that lessons and music need not suffer. For she was really glad when Mrs. Chatterton's French maid asked her respectfully if she would please be so good as to step up to her mistress's apartments, “s'il vous plait, Mees Polly.”

“Yes, indeed,” cried Polly, springing off from the window-seat, and forgetting the enchanted story-land immediately in the rush of delight. “Oh, I have another chance to try to please her,” she thought, skimming over the stairs. But she was careful to restrain her steps on reaching the room.

“You may take that paper,” said Mrs. Chatterton, seating herself in her favorite chair, “and read to me. You know the things I desire to hear, or ought to.” She pointed to the society news, Town Talk, lying on the table.

Polly took it up, glad to be of the least service, and whirled it over to get the fashion items, feeling sure that now she was on the right road to favor.

“Don't rattle it,” cried Mrs. Chatterton, in a thin, high voice.

“I'll try not to,” said Polly, wishing she could be deft-handed like Mamsie, and doing her best to get to the inner page quietly.

“And why don't you read where you are?” cried Mrs. Chatterton. “Begin on the first page. I wish to hear that first.”

Polly turned the sheet back again, and obeyed. But she hadn't read more than a paragraph when she came to a dead stop.

“Go on,” commanded Mrs. Chatterton, her eyes sparkling. She had forgotten to play with her rings, being perfectly absorbed in the delicious morsels of exceedingly unsavory gossip she was hearing.

Polly laid the paper in her lap, and her two hands fell upon it. “Oh, Mrs. Chatterton,” she cried, the color flying from her cheek, “please let me read something else to you. Mamsie wouldn't like me to read this.” The brown eyes filled with tears, and she leaned forward imploringly.

“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton passionately. “I command you to read that, girl. Do you hear me?”

“I cannot,” said Polly, in a low voice. “Mamsie wouldn't like it.” But it was perfectly distinct, and fell upon the angry ears clearly; and storm as she might, Mrs. Chatterton knew that the little country maiden would never bend to her will in this case.

“I would have you to know that I understand much better than your mother possibly can, what is for your good to read. Besides, she will never know.”

“Mamsie knows every single thing that we children do,” cried Polly decidedly, and lifting her pale face; “and she understands better than any one else about what we ought to do, for she is our mother.”

“What arrant nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton passionately, and unable to control herself at the prospect of losing Polly for a reader, which she couldn't endure, as she thoroughly enjoyed her services in that line. She got out of her chair, and paced up and down the long apartment angrily, saying all sorts of most disagreeable things, that Polly only half heard, so busy was she debating in her own mind what she ought to do. Should she run out of the room, and leave this dreadful old woman that every one in the house was tired of? Surely she had tried enough to please her, but she could not do what Mamsie would never approve of. And just as Polly had about decided to slip out, she looked up.

Mrs. Chatterton, having exhausted her passion, as it seemed to do no good, was returning to her seat, with such a dreary step and forlorn expression that she seemed ten years older. She really looked very feeble, and Polly broke out impulsively, “Oh, let me read the other part of the paper, dear Mrs. Chatterton. May I?”

“Read it,” said Mrs. Chatterton ungraciously, and sat down in her favorite chair.

Polly, scarcely believing her ears, whirled over the sheet, and determined to read as well as she possibly could, managed to throw so much enthusiasm into the fashion hints and social items, that presently Mrs. Chatterton's eyes were sparkling again, although she was deprived of her unsavory morsels.

And before long she was eagerly telling Polly to read over certain dictates of the Paris correspondent, who was laying down the law for feminine dress, and calling again for the last information of the movements of members of her social set, till there could be no question of her enjoyment.

Polly, not knowing or caring how long she had been thus occupied, so long as Mrs. Chatterton was happy, was only conscious that Hortense came back from the errands, which occasioned only a brief pause.

“Put the parcels down,” said Mrs. Chatterton, scarcely glancing at her, “I cannot attend to you now. Go on, Polly.”

So Polly went on, until the fashionable and social world had been so thoroughly canvassed that even Mrs. Chatterton was quite convinced that she could get no more from the paper.

“You may go now,” she said, but with a hungry glance for the first page. Then she tore her gaze away, and repeated more coldly than ever, “You may go.”

Polly ran off, dismayed to find how happy she was at the release. Her feet, unaccustomed to sitting still so long, were numb, and little prickles were running up and down her legs. She hurried as fast as she could into Mamsie's room, feeling in need of all the good cheer she could find.

“Mrs. Fisher has gone out,” said Jane, going along the hall.

“Gone out!” repeated Polly, “Oh, where? Do you know, Jane?”

“I don't exactly know,” said Jane, “but she took Miss Phronsie; and I think it's shopping they went for. Mr. King has taken them in the carriage.”

“Oh, I know it is,” cried Polly, and a dreadful feeling surged through her. Why had she spent all this time with that horrible old woman, and lost this precious treat!

“They thought you had gone to the Salisbury School,” said Jane, wishing she could give some comfort, “for they wanted you awfully to go.”

“And now I've lost it all,” cried Polly at a white heat—“all this perfectly splendid time with Grandpapa and Mamsie and Phronsie just for the sake of a horrible—”

Then she broke short off, and ran back into Mamsie's room, and flung herself down by the bed, just as she used to do by the four-poster in the bedroom of the little brown house.

“Why, Polly, child!” Mother Fisher's voice was very cheery as she came in, Phronsie hurrying after.

“I don't see her,” began Phronsie in a puzzled way, and peering on all sides. “Where is she, Mamsie?”

Mrs. Fisher went over and laid her hand on Polly's brown head. “Now, Phronsie, you may run out, that is a good girl.” She leaned over, and set a kiss on Phronsie's red lips.

“Is Polly sick?” asked Phronsie, going off to the door obediently, but looking back with wondering eyes.

“No, dear, I think not,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Run along, dear.”

“I am so glad she isn't sick,” said Phronsie, as she went slowly off. Yet she carried a troubled face.

“I ought to go and see how Sinbad is,” she decided, as she went downstairs. This visit was an everyday performance, to be carefully gone through with. So she passed out of the big side doorway, to the veranda.

“There is Michael now,” she cried joyfully, espying that individual raking up the west lawn. So skipping off, she flew over to him. This caught the attention of little Dick from the nursery window.

“Hurry up there!” he cried crossly to Battles, who was having a hard time anyway getting him into a fresh sailor suit.

“Oh, Dicky—Dicky!” called mamma softly from her room.

“I can't help it, mamma; Battles is slow and poky,” he fumed.

“Oh, no, dear,” said his mother; “Battles always gets you ready very swiftly, as well as nicely.”

Battles, a comfortable person, turned her round face with a smile toward the door. “And if you was more like your mamma, Master Dick, you'd be through with dressing, and make everything more pleasant to yourself and to every one else.”

“Well, I'm not in the least like mamma, Battles; I can't be.”

“No, indeed, you ain't. But you can try,” said Battles encouragingly.

“Why, Battles Whitney!” exclaimed Dick, whirling around on her. In astonishment, or any excitement, Dicky invariably gave her the whole name that he felt she ought to possess; “Mrs. Mara Battles” not being at all within his comprehension. “What an awful story!”

“Dicky—Dicky!” reproved Mrs. Whitney.

“Well, I can't help it, mamma.” Dick now escaped from Battles' hands altogether, and fled into the other room, the comfortable person following. “She said”—plunging up to her chair in great excitement—“that I could be like you.”

“I said you could try to be,” corrected Battles, smoothing down her apron.

“And she knows I can't ever be, in all this world,” declared Dick, shaking his short curls in decision, and glancing back to see the effect, “for you're a woman, and I'm always going to be a man. Why, see how big I am now!” He squared off, and strutted up and down the little boudoir.

“And you'd be bigger if you'd let me fix your blouse and button it up,” declared Battles, laughing, and bearing down on him to fasten the band and tuck in the vest. “And if you were more like your mother in disposition—that's what I mean—'twould be a sight comfortabler for you and every one else. Now, says I, your hair's got to be brushed.” And she led him back into the nursery, laughing all the way.

“What makes you shake so when you laugh, Battles?” asked Dick suddenly, and ignoring all references to his disposition.

“Can't help it,” said Battles, beginning work on the curls; “that's because there's so much of me, I suppose,” and she laughed more than ever.

“There's so very much of you, Battles,” observed Dick with a critical look all over her rotund figure. “What makes it?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Battles. “Stand still, Dicky, and I'll be through all the sooner. Some folks is big and round, and some folks is little and scrawny.”

“What's scrawny?” asked Dick, who always got as many alleviations by conversation as possible out of the detested hair-brushing.

“Why, thin and lean.”

“Oh, well, go on, Battles.”

“And I'm one of the big and round ones,” said Battles, seeing no occasion in that statement to abate her cheerfulness. So she laughed again.

“I like you big and round, Battles,” cried little Dick affectionately, and whirling about so suddenly as to endanger his eye with the comb doing good execution. And he essayed to put his arms around her waist, which he was always hoping to be able to accomplish.

“That's good,” said Battles, laughing, well pleased. “But you mustn't jump around so. There now, in a minute you shall be off.” And she took up the brush.

“I must,” declared Dick, remembering his sight of Phronsie running across the lawn; “do hurry, Battles,” he pleaded, which so won her heart that she abridged part of the brushing, and let him scamper off.

Phronsie was kneeling down in front of Sinbad's kennel.

“Can't you untie him to-day, Michael?” she asked, a question she had propounded each morning since the boys went back to school.

“Yes, Miss Phronsie, I think I can; he's wonted now, and the other dogs are accustomed to him. Besides, I've locked up Jerry since he fit him.”

“I know,” said Phronsie sorrowfully; “that was naughty of Jerry when Sinbad had only just come.”

Michael scratched his head. He couldn't tell her what was on his mind, that Sinbad was scarcely such a dog as any one would buy, and therefore his presence was not to be relished by the high-bred animals already at home on the place.

“Well, you know, Miss Phronsie,” he said at last, “it's kinder difficult like, to expect some dogs to remember their manners; and Jerry ain't like all the others in that respect.”

“Please tell him about it,” said Phronsie earnestly, “how good Prince is to Sinbad, and then I guess he'll want to be like him.” For Phronsie had never swerved in her allegiance to Prince ever since he saved her from the naughty organ man in the little-brown-house days. And in all her conversations with the other dogs she invariably held up Jasper's big black dog, his great friend and companion since pinafore days, as their model.

And just then Dicky ran up breathlessly.

“Dick,” announced Phronsie excitedly, “Michael is going to let Sinbad out to-day.” And she clasped her hands in delight.

“Jolly!” exclaimed Dick, capering about.

“Now, Master Dick, you must let the dog alone,” cried Michael. “It's time to try him with his freedom a bit. He's chafin' at that chain.” He looked anxiously at Dick. “Stand off there, both of you,” and he slipped the chain off.

Sinbad gave a little wiggle with his hind legs, and stretched his yellow body. It was too good to be true! But it was, though; he was free, and he shot out from his kennel, which was down in the gardener's quarters, and quite removed from the other dogs, and fairly tore—his ragged little tail straight out—across the west lawn.

“Oh, he'll run back to Joel at school,” cried Dick, who had heard Joel say he must be tied at first when everything was strange; and he started on a mad run after him.

“You stay still,” roared Michael; “that dog is only stretchin' his legs. He'll come back.” But as well tell the north wind to stop blowing. Dicky's blouse puffed out with the breeze, as his small legs executed fine speed.

“Oh, Michael!” cried Phronsie in the greatest distress, “make Dicky come back.”

“Oh, he'll come back,” said Michael reassuringly, though he quaked inwardly. And so Dicky did. But it was now a matter of Sinbad chasing him; for as Michael had said, the dog, after stretching his legs as the mad rush across the lawn enabled him to do, now was very much pleased to return for a little petting at the hands of those people who had given him every reason to expect that he should receive it; and supposing, from Dick's chase after him, that a race was agreeable, he set forth; his ears, as ragged as his tail, pricked up in the fullest enjoyment of the occasion.

But Dick saw nothing in it to enjoy. And exerting all his strength to keep ahead, which he couldn't do as well for the reason that he was screaming fearfully, Sinbad came up with him easily. Dicky, turning his head in mad terror at that instant, stumbled and fell. Sinbad, unable to stop at short notice, or rather no notice at all, rolled over with him in a heap.

This brought all the stable-boys to the scene, besides Mrs. Whitney who had seen some of the affair from her window; and finally, when everything was beginning to be calmed down, Battles reached the lawn.

Sinbad was in Phronsie's lap, who sat on the grass, holding him tightly.

“Oh, Phronsie!” gasped Mrs. Whitney at that. “Michael, do take him away,” as she fled by to Dick. One of the stable-boys was brushing off the grime from his sailor suit.

“The dog is all right, ma'am,” said Michael, 'twas only play; I s'pose Master Joel has raced with him.”

“'Twas only play,” repeated little Dick, who, now that he found himself whole, was surprised the idea hadn't occurred to him before. “Hoh! I'm not hurt, and I'm going to race with him again.”

“Not to-day, Dicky,” said Mrs. Whitney, looking him all over anxiously.

“He's all right, ma'am,” declared Michael; “they just rolled over together, 'cause, you see, ma'am, the dog couldn't stop, he was a-goin' so fast, when the youngster turned right in his face.”

And Dick, to prove his soundness of body and restoration of mind, ran up to Phronsie, and flung himself down on the grass by her side.

Sinbad received him as a most pleasant acquaintance, cocked up his ragged ears, and tried to wag his poor little scrubby tail, never quite getting it into his head that it wasn't long and graceful. And then he set upon the task of licking Dick's hands all over, and as much of his face as was possible to compass.

“See that now,” cried Michael triumphantly, pointing, “that dog mayn't be handsome, but he hain't got a bad bone in his body, if he does look like the Evil One hisself.”

This episode absorbing all their attention, nobody heard or saw Alexia Rhys, running lightly up over the terrace. “Oh, my! what are you doing? And where's Polly?” she asked of Mrs. Whitney.

It being soon told, Alexia, who evidently had some exciting piece of news for Polly, ran into the house.

“Polly,” she called. “Oh, Polly Pepper, where are you?” running over the stairs at the same time.

But Polly, as we have seen, was not in her room.

“Now then,” Mother Fisher said at sound of Alexia's voice, “as we've finished our talk, Polly, why, you must run down and see her.”

But Polly clung to her mother's neck. “Do you think I ought to go next Saturday morning out shopping, Mamsie, after I've been so naughty?”

“Indeed, you ought,” cried Mrs. Fisher, in her most decisive fashion. “Dear me! that would be very dreadful, Polly, after we put it off for you, when we thought you had gone down to the Salisbury School. Why, we couldn't get along without you, Polly.”

So Polly, with a happy feeling at her heart that she was really needed to make the shopping trip a success, and best of all for the long talk with Mamsie, that had set many things right, ran down to meet Alexia, brimming over with her important news.

“Where have you been?” demanded Alexia, just on the point of rushing out of Polly's room in despair. “I've looked everywhere for you, even in the shoe-box.” And without waiting for a reply, she dragged Polly back. “Oh, you can't possibly guess!” her pale eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Then tell me, do, Alexia,” begged Polly, scarcely less wrought up.

“Oh, Polly, the most elegant thing imaginable!” Alexia dearly loved to spin out her exciting news as long as possible, driving the girls almost frantic by such methods.

“Well, if you are not going to tell me, I might as well go back again, up in Mamsie's room,” declared Polly, working herself free from the long arms, and starting for the door.

“Oh, I'll tell, Polly—I'll tell,” cried Alexia, plunging after. “Miss Salisbury says—I've just been up to the school after my German grammar—that Mr. John Clemcy and Miss Ophelia have invited the whole Salisbury School out there for next Saturday afternoon. Think of it, after that smashed vase, Polly Pepper!”

Polly Pepper sat down on the shoe-box, quite gone in surprise.

It was as Alexia had said: a most surprising thing, when one took into consideration how much Mr. John Clemcy had suffered from the carelessness of a Salisbury pupil on the occasion of the accidental visit. But evidently one of his reasons—though by no means the only one—was his wish to salve the feelings of the gentlewomen, who were constantly endeavoring to show him their overwhelming sorrow, and trying to make all possible reparation for the loss of the vase.

And he had stated his desire so forcibly on one of the many visits to the school that seemed to be necessary after the accident, that Miss Salisbury was unable to refuse the invitation, although it nearly threw her, self-contained as she usually was, into a panic at the very idea.

“But why did you promise, sister?” Miss Anstice turned on her on the withdrawal of the gentleman, whose English composure of face and bearing was now, in its victory, especially trying to bear. “I am surprised at you. Something dreadful will surely happen.”

“Don't, Anstice,” begged Miss Salisbury, nervous to the last degree, since even the support of “sister” was to be withdrawn. “It was the least I could do, to please him—after what has happened.”

“Well, something will surely happen,” mourned Miss Anstice. “You know how unfortunate it has been from the very beginning. I've never been able to look at that gown since, although it has been washed till every stain is removed.”

“Put it on for this visit, sister,” advised Miss Salisbury, with a healthy disapproval of superstitions, “and break the charm.”

“Oh, never!” Miss Anstice raised her slender hands. “I wouldn't run such a chance as to wear that gown for all the world. It will be unlucky enough, you will see, without that, sister.”

But as far as anybody could see, everything was perfectly harmonious and successful on the following Saturday afternoon. To begin with, the weather was perfect; although at extremely short intervals Miss Anstice kept reminding her sister that a tremendous shower might be expected when the expedition was once under way.

The girls, when they received their invitation Monday morning from Miss Salisbury in the long schoolroom, were, to state it figuratively, “taken off their feet” in surprise, with the exception of those fortunate enough to have caught snatches of the news always sure to travel fast when set going by Alexia; and wild was the rejoicing, when they could forget the broken vase, at the prospect of another expedition under Miss Salisbury's guidance.

“If Miss Anstice only weren't going!” sighed Clem. “She is such a fussy old thing. It spoils everybody's fun just to look at her.”

“Well, don't look at her,” advised Alexia calmly; “for my part, I never do, unless I can't help it.”

“How are you going to help it,” cried Amy Garrett dismally, “when you are in her classes? Oh dear! I do wish Miss Salisbury would get rid of her as a teacher, and let Miss Wilcox take her place.”

“Miss Wilcox is just gay!” exclaimed Silvia. “Well, don't let's talk of that old frump any more. Goodness me! here she comes,” as Miss Anstice advanced down the long hall, where the girls were discussing the wonderful invitation after school.

And as the day was perfect, so the spirits of the “Salisbury girls” were at their highest. And Mr. Kimball and his associates drove them over in the same big barges, the veteran leader not recovering from the surprise into which he had been thrown by this afternoon party given to the Salisbury School by Mr. Clemcy and his sister.

“Of all things in this world, this is th' cap-sheaf,” he muttered several times on the way. “A good ten year or more, those English folks have been drawin' back in them pretty grounds, an' offendin' every one; an' now, to get a passel o' girls to run over an' stomp 'em all down!”

Being unable to solve the puzzle, it afforded him plenty of occupation to work away at it.

Mr. Clemcy and Miss Ophelia, caring as little for the opinion of the stage-driver as for the rest of the world, received the visitors on the broad stone piazza, whose pillars ran the length of the house, and up to the roof, affording a wide gallery above. It was all entwined with English ivy and creepers taken from the homestead in Devonshire, and brought away when the death of the old mother made it impossible for life to be sustained by Miss Ophelia unless wrenched up from the roots where clustered so many memories. So Brother John decided to make that wrench, and to make it complete. So here they were.

“I didn't know it was so pretty,” cried Clem, after the ladies had been welcomed with the most gracious, old-time hospitality, and the schoolgirls tumbled out of the barges to throng up. “It rained so when we were here before, we couldn't see anything.”

“Pretty?” repeated Alexia, comprehending it all in swift, bird-like glances. “It's perfectly beautiful!” She turned, and Mr. Clemcy, who was regarding her, smiled, and they struck up a friendship on the spot.

“Miss Salisbury, allow me.” Mr. Clemcy was leading her off. Miss Anstice, not trusting the ill-fated white gown, rustled after in the black silk one, with Miss Ophelia, down the wide hall, open at the end, with vistas of broad fields beyond, where the host paused. “Let the young ladies come,” he said; and the girls trooped after, to crowd around the elder people.

Amongst the palms and bookcases, with which the broad hall was lined, was a pedestal, whose top was half covered with a soft, filmy cloth.

Mr. Clemcy lifted this, and took it off carefully. There stood the little vase, presenting as brave an appearance as in its first perfection.

Miss Salisbury uttered no exclamation, but preserved her composure by a violent effort.

“I flatter myself on my ability to repair my broken collection,” began Mr. Clemcy, when a loud exclamation from the girls in front startled every one. Miss Anstice, on the first shock, had been unable to find that composure that was always “sister's” envied possession; so despite the environment of the black silk gown, she gave it up, and sank gradually to the ground.

“I told you so,” cried Clem, in a hoarse whisper to her nearest neighbors; “she always spoils everybody's fun,” as Miss Anstice, at the host's suggestion, his sister being rendered incapable of action at this sudden emergency, was put to rest in one of the pretty chintz-covered rooms above, till such time as she could recover herself enough to join them below.

“I couldn't help it, sister,” she said. “I've been so worried about that vase. You don't know, because you are always so calm; and then to see it standing there—it quite took away my breath.”

Oh, the delights of the rose-garden! in which every variety of the old-fashioned rose seemed to have had a place lovingly assigned to it. Sweetbrier clambered over the walls of the gardener's cottage, the stables, and charming summer-houses, into which the girls ran with delight. For Mr. Clemcy had said they were to go everywhere and enjoy everything without restraint.

“He's a dear,” exclaimed Lucy Bennett, “only I'm mortally afraid of him.”

“Well, I'm not,” proclaimed Alexia.

The idea of Alexia being in any state that would suggest fear, being so funny, the girls burst out laughing.

“Well, we sha'n't any of us feel like laughing much in a little while,” said Clem dolefully.

“What is the matter?” cried a dozen voices.

“Matter enough,” replied Clem. “I've said so before, and now I know it's coming. Just look at that.”

She pushed aside the swaying branches of the sweetbrier, and pointed tragically. “I don't see anything,” said one or two of the girls.

“There!” “There” meant Mr. Clemcy and Miss Salisbury passing down the rose-walk, the broad central path. He was evidently showing her some treasured variety and descanting on it; the principal of the Salisbury School from her wide knowledge of roses, as well as of other subjects, being able to respond very intelligently.

“Oh, can't you see? You stupid things!” cried Clem. “He's going to marry our Miss Salisbury, and then she'll give up our school; and—and—” She turned away, and threw herself off in a corner.

A whole chorus of “No—no!” burst upon this speech.

“Hush!” cried Alexia, quite horrified. “Polly, do stop them; Miss Salisbury is turning around; and she's been worried quite enough over that dreadful Miss Anstice,” which had the effect of reducing the girls to quiet.

“But it isn't so,” cried the girls in frantic whispers, “what Clem says.” And those who were not sure of themselves huddled down on the summer-house floor. “Say, Alexia, you don't think so, do you?”

But Alexia would give them no comfort, but wisely seizing Polly's arm, departed with her. “I shall say something that I'll be sorry for,” she declared, “if I stay another moment longer. For, Polly Pepper, I do really believe that it's true, what Clem says.”

And the rest of that beautiful afternoon, with rambles over the wide estate, and tea with berries and cream on the terraces, was a dream, scarcely comprehended by the “Salisbury girls,” who were strangely quiet and well-behaved. For this Miss Salisbury was thankful.

And presently Miss Anstice, coming down in the wake of Miss Ophelia, was put carefully into a comfortable chair on the stone veranda, where she sat pale and quiet, Miss Clemcy assiduously devoting herself to her, and drawing up a little table to her side for her berries and cream and tea.

“Now we will be comfortable together,” said Miss Ophelia, the maid bringing her special little pot of tea.

“I am so mortified, my dear Miss Clemcy,” began Miss Anstice, her little hands nervously working, “to have given way;” all of which she had said over and over to her hostess in the chintz-covered room. “And you are so kind to overlook it so beautifully.”

“It is impossible to blame one of your delicate sensibility,” said Miss Ophelia; with her healthy English composure, quite in her element to have some one to fuss over, and to make comfortable in her own way. “Now, then, I trust that tea is quite right,” handing her a cup.

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