Marian came to dinner, and Frank came with her. As he announced when he entered, he had had no invitation, but he said he did not hesitate on that account.

"I should think not," said Patty. "I expect all the Elliott family to live at my house, and only go home occasionally to visit."

So Frank proceeded to make himself at home, and when Mr. Fairfield arrived a little later and dinner was served, it was a very merry party of four that sat down to the table.

As Patty had promised her father, the dinner was excellent, and it was with a pardonable pride that she dispensed the hospitality of her own table.

"What's the dessert going to be, Patty?" asked Frank. "Nightingales' tongues, I suppose, served on rose-leaves."

"Don't be rude, Frank," said his sister. "You're probably causing your hostess great embarrassment."

"Not at all," said Patty; "I am now such an old, experienced housekeeper, that I'm not disturbed by such insinuations. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Frank, but the dessert is a very simple one. However, you are now about to have a most marvellous concoction called 'Russian Salad.' I was a little uncertain as to how it would turn out, so I thought I'd try it tonight, as I knew my guests would be both good-natured and hungry."

"That's a combination of virtues that don't always go together," said Mr. Fairfield. "I hope the young people appreciate the compliment. To be good-natured and hungry at the same time implies a disposition little short of angelic."

"So you see," said Marian, "you're not entertaining these angels unawares."

"Bravo! pretty good for Mally," said Frank, applauding his sister's speech. "And if I may be allowed to remark on such a delicate subject, your salad is also pretty good, Patty."

"It's more than pretty good," said Marian. "It's a howling, screaming, shouting success. I am endeavouring to find out what it's made of."

"You can't do it," said Mr. Fairfield. "I have tried, too; and it seems to include everything that ever grew on the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth."

"Your guesses are not far out of the way," said Patty composedly. "I will not attempt to deny that that complicated and exceedingly Frenchified salad is concocted from certain remainders that were set away in the refrigerator after yesterday's dinner."

"Who would have believed it?" exclaimed Frank, looking at his plate with mock awe and reverence.

"Materials count for very little in a salad," said Marian, with a wise and didactic air. "Its whole success depends on the way it is put together."

"Now, that's a true compliment," said Patty; "and it is mine, for I made this salad all myself."

After dinner they adjourned to the library, and the girls fell to making plans for the Tea Club, which was to meet there next day.

"I do think," said Marian, "it's awfully mean of Helen Preston to insist on having a bazaar. They're so old-fashioned and silly; and we could get up some novel entertainment that would make just as much money, and be a lot more fun besides."

"I know it," said Patty. "I just hate bazaars; with their everlasting
Rebeccas at the Well, and flower-girls, and fish-ponds, and gipsy-tents.
But, then, what could we have?"

"Why, there are two or three of those little acting shows that Elsie
Morris told us about. I think they would be a great deal nicer."

"What sort of acting shows are you talking about, my children; and what is it all to be?" asked Mr. Fairfield, who was always interested in Patty's plans.

"Why, papa, it's the Tea Club, you know; and we're going to have an entertainment to make money for the Day Nursery—oh, you just ought to see those cunning little babies! And they haven't room enough, or nurses enough, or anything. And you know the Tea Club never has done any good in the world; we've never done a thing but sit around and giggle; and so we thought, if we could make a hundred dollars, wouldn't it be nice?"

"The hundred dollars would be very nice, indeed; but just how are you going to make it? What's this about an acting play?"

"Oh, not a regular play,—just a sort of dialogue thing, you know; and we'd have it in Library Hall, and Aunt Alice and a lot of her friends would be patronesses."

"It would seem to me," said Frank, "that Miss Patty Fairfield, now being an old and experienced housekeeper, could qualify as a patroness herself."

"No, thank you," said Patty. "I'm housekeeper for my father, and in my father's house, but to the great outside world I'm still a shy and bashful young miss."

"You don't look the part," said Frank; "you ought to go around with your finger in your mouth."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" said Patty. "I shall begin to cultivate the habit at once."

"Do," said Marian; "I'm sure it would be becoming to you, but perhaps hard on your gloves."

"Well, there's one thing certain," said Patty:

"I would really rather put my finger in my mouth than to crook out my little finger in that absurd way that so many people do. Why, Florence Douglass never lifts a cup of tea that she doesn't crook out her little finger, and then think she's a very pattern of all that's elegant."

"I know it," said Marian. "I think it's horrid, too; it's nothing but airs. I know lots of people who do it when they're all dressed up, but who never think of such a thing when they are alone at home."

"I wonder what the real reason is?" said Patty thoughtfully.

"It is an announcement of refinement," said Mr. Fairfield, falling in with his daughter's train of thought; "and, as we all know, the refinement that needs to be announced is no refinement at all. We therefore see that the conspicuously curved little finger is but an advertisement of a specious and flimsy imitation of aristocracy."

"Papa, you certainly do know it all," said Patty. "I haven't any words by me just now, long enough to answer you with, but I quite agree with you in spirit."

"That's all very well," said Frank, "for a modern, twentieth-century explanation, but the real root of the matter goes far back into the obscure ages of antiquity. The whole habit is a relic of barbarism. Probably, in the early ages, only the great had cups to drink from. These few, to protect themselves from their envious and covetous brethren, stuck out their little fingers to ward off possible assaults upon their porcelain property. This ingrained impulse the ages have been unable to eradicate. Hence we find the Little Finger Crooks upon the earth to-day."

"What an ingenious boy you are," said Patty, looking at her cousin with mock admiration. "How did you ever think of all that?"

"That isn't ingenuity, miss, it's historic research, and you'll probably find that Florence Douglass can trace her ancestry right back to the aforesaid barbarians."

"I suppose most of us are descended from primitive people," said Marian.

And then the entrance of Elsie Morris and her brother Guy put an end to the discussion of little fingers.

"I'm so glad to see you," said Patty, welcoming her callers. "Come right into the library, you are our first real guests."

"Then I think we ought to have the Prize for Promptness," said Elsie, as she took off her wraps. "But don't you count Frank and Marian?"

"Not as guests," replied Patty; "they're relatives, and you know your relatives—"

"Are like the poor," interrupted Frank, "because they're always with you."

"Then, we are really your first callers?" said Guy Morris.

"No, not quite," said Patty, laughing. "I spoke too hastily when I said that, and forgot entirely a very distinguished personage who visited me this morning."

"Who was it?"

"My next-door neighbour, Miss Daggett."

"What! Not Locky Ann Daggett!" exclaimed Elsie, laughing merrily.

"It was Miss Rachel Daggett. I don't know why you call her by that queer name," said Patty.

"Oh, I've known her ever since I was a baby, and mother always calls her Locky Ann Daggett, and grandmother did before her. You know Locky is a nickname for Rachel."

"I didn't know it," said Patty. "What an absurd nickname."

"Yes, isn't it? How did you like her?"

"It isn't a question of liking," answered Patty. "She doesn't want me to like her. All she seemed to care about was to have me promise not to interfere with her."

"Oh, she's afraid of you," said Guy. "You don't seem so very terrifying, now, but I suppose when you're engaged in the housekeeping of your house you're an imposing and awe-inspiring sight."

"I dare say I am," said Patty; "but my neighbour, Miss Daggett, I'm sure, would be imposing at any hour of the day or night."

"She's a queer character," said Elsie. "Have you never seen her before?"

"No; I never even heard of her until she sent up her card."

"Why, how funny," said Marian; "I've always heard of Locky Ann Daggett, but I never knew anything about her, except that she's very old and very queer."

"She's a sort of humourous character," said Guy Morris; "strong-minded, you know, and eccentric, but not half bad. I quite like the old lady, though I almost never see her."

"No; she doesn't seem to care to see people," said Patty. "She seems to have no taste for society. Why, I don't suppose she'd care to take part in our play, even if we invited her."

"Oh, what about the play?" said Elsie. "Have you really decided to have a play, instead of that stupid old fair?"

"We haven't decided anything," said Patty, "we can't until the club meets to-morrow."

"Oh, do have a play," said Frank, "and then us fellows can take part. We couldn't do anything at a bazaar, except stand around and buy things."

"And we're chuck-full of histrionic talent," put in Guy. "You ought to see me do Hamlet."

"Yes," said Frank, "Guy's Hamlet is quite the funniest thing on the face of the earth. I do love comedy."

"So do I," said Guy, "I just love to play a side-splitting part like Hamlet."

"Then you may have a chance," said Marian, "for one of the plays we're thinking about—and it isn't exactly a play either—brings in a whole lot of tragic characters in a humourous way. It's a general mix-up, you know: Hamlet, and Sairy Gamp, and Rip Van Winkle, and Old Mother Hubbard, and everybody."

"Yes, that's a good one," said Marian; "it's called 'Shakespeare at the
Seashore.'"

"The name is enough to condemn that piece," said Mr. Fairfield; "not one of you can say it straight."

And sure enough, though numerous attempts were made, and much laughter ensued, none entirely successful.