Peggy, with flying yellow hair, was climbing the high stepladder in the library, getting down books for her mother to pack. She skipped up the stepladder as joyously as a kitten climbs a tree. Everything about Peggy seemed alive, from her gray eyes that met one’s glance so fearlessly, to her small feet that danced about the room between her trips up and down the stepladder. Her skirts were very short, and her legs were very long and thin, so that she reminded one of a young colt kinking up its heels for a scamper about the pasture.

“Peggy, you will break your neck if you are not careful,” said her grandmother. “And don’t throw the books down in that way; see how carefully Alice puts them down.”

Alice smiled at the compliment and showed her dimples. She was a pretty little thing with brown hair and big brown eyes. She was two years younger than her sister Peggy, and was as small for her age as Peggy was large for hers. She was taking the books from the lowest shelf, as she was afraid to climb the stepladder.

“I’ll risk Peggy’s neck,” said her mother, as Peggy once more skipped up the stepladder.

This time she put the books down more carefully.

The family were moving from the large, old-fashioned house where the children had been born to a very small one, more than a mile farther from the village. Peggy and Alice were greatly interested in the moving. Their father’s mother had come all the way from New York to help about it.

Their father had been a country doctor with a large practice and he had gone into the war to save the lives of others; but the hospital where he was at work had been shelled, and he had lost his own life. This had happened almost at the end of the war. It seemed to the children a long time since the war was over, and a very long time since their father had gone overseas.

Peggy and Alice had been very much overcome when they heard of their father’s death, but now the world was very pleasant again. Another doctor was coming to town, to move into their roomy old house and take the practice which had been their father’s.

Peggy looked out of the window at the garden. It looked its worst on this March day, for it was all patches of white and brown. There was not enough of the white snow for winter sports, nor was the brown earth ready for planting seeds. Peggy was glad there were children in the doctor’s family because they would be sure to enjoy the croquet ground and the apple trees. How she should miss the apple trees! There was only one apple tree where they were going, but there was a cherry tree. Peggy’s face brightened when she thought of the cherry tree. And they were to have a garden full of vegetables.

“Mary,” said the children’s grandmother to their mother, “I’ll give you a year to try your experiment; and remember, if you don’t succeed, my offer holds good. I’ll always have a room in my small apartment for one of the children; and Peggy is old enough to get a great deal of good from a New York school.”

Peggy looked as if nothing would induce her to leave her mother. Not that she disliked her grandmother. Peggy liked people of all ages. She did not like old ladies so well as people of her mother’s age, because the younger ones were so much more active; and she liked children better still, for the same reason; and boys even better than girls, because they never expected you to play dolls with them. Peggy did not care for dolls as Alice did. When the world was so full of live things that scampered and frisked, or flew or crawled, why tie one’s self down to make-believe people that could neither speak nor move? Pussy was much more interesting than any doll.

Peggy looked at the furniture, standing forlornly about in strange places. Her own mahogany bureau was downstairs. “It looks for all the world,” said Peggy, “like a cat in a strange garret.” She had read this phrase in a book the day before, and it took her fancy. And then she wondered how their own cat would feel in her new home. And there was not any garret in the tiny house where they were going.

The cat walked in just then, but seeing the confusion she fled upstairs. She was a gray pussy, with darker gray stripes, and a pronounced purr that was almost as cozy as the sound of a tea-kettle. She had a pleasant habit of having young families of kittens, two or three times a year. The only drawback was, the kittens had to be given away just as they got to the most interesting age. There were no kittens now, only pussy, whose whole name was Lady Jane Grey.

Their grandmother was making a list of the books, for some of the boxes were to go to her in New York, others to the Town Library, while many of them they were to keep themselves. All the medical books were to be left in their father’s office for the new doctor to dispose of as he thought best.

“Do you know, mother, how many children the doctor has, and whether they are boys or girls?” Peggy asked.

“No, he just said ‘children’ in his letter.”

“I hope there will be a girl, and that she will like to play with dolls,” said Alice.

“But you’ve Clara, I don’t see what more you want,” said Peggy.

“But Clara is never here in the winter,” said Alice.

That night, after the children had gone to bed, they began to talk about the doctor’s family. It was the last night they were to spend in the old house, and they felt a little sad as they climbed into the mahogany four-poster bedstead, for the room looked desolate. The curtains had been packed, and all the furniture was gone except the bed.

“Anyway, we’ll be sleeping on it to-morrow night,” said Peggy. “We’ll have Roxanna Bedpost with us just the same.”

She looked at the lower bedpost at her right that she had christened by this name when she was a tiny child, because her mother had hung Peggy’s blue sunbonnet on it.

“Shut up your eyes, Peggy, and see things,” said Alice. “Perhaps you can see the children who are going to live here.”

Peggy had a delightful way of seeing things that Alice could not see. She shut her eyes up and thought hard and then she opened them and looked at the opposite wall.

It seemed quite simple, but whenever Alice tried it she could see nothing. “Do you really see things, Peggy?” she once asked.

“I see them in my mind’s eye,” said Peggy.

“What do you see to-night, Peggy?” said Alice.

“I see two children, a boy and a girl; and they are picking red apples in our orchard.”

“In March?”

“It’s not March in my mind’s eye. They are beautiful, big, red apples. The girl is a little bigger than you and a little smaller than me, so she’s just right for both of us to play with, and her name is Matilda Ann.”

“I don’t think that is at all a pretty name.”

“I did not say it was a pretty name; I just said her name was Matilda Ann.”

“I hope it isn’t.”

“Well, what do you guess it is?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“You must guess something.”

“Oh, well, Fanny.”

“Fanny! That’s a very stupid sort of name,” said Peggy.

They were still talking about the possible names of the possible girl and boy when their mother came in to see if they were tucked up for the night.

“Are you still awake?” she asked. “I wonder what you do find to talk about when you see each other all day long.”