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Trees."Very likely they are still busy, though they don't mind us. I havebeen thinking we might ask Evey and her sister to spend an afternoonwith you--to-morrow perhaps, or the day after."

  "Yes," I said. "I should like that. If their mother can spare them,and if all their time isn't settled out for lessons, and sewing, andtaking care of the little ones, like dreadfully good girls instory-books. I'm afraid they're a _little_ that way, mamma--very, veryregular and punctual, and their mother rather severe and particular.I'll tell you what I'm sure she's like, mamma. Very tall, much tallerthan you,"--and mamma is not little--"and black hair, quite straightlydone, and rather small eyes, and a prim way of speaking."

  Mamma began to laugh.

  "Hush, Connie," she said, "you mustn't upset my gravity. Once I beginlaughing,"--poor mamma, it wasn't very often she was really merry,though she tried to seem so for other people's sake--"I can't leaveoff."

  We were close to the house by this time, though the thick-growing shrubshid the lower part of it from view, and as mamma spoke, sounds ofringing laughter--the most ringing, happy, _pretty_ laughter I everheard--reached our ears; and then voices.

  "Joss, Evey, come to my rescue; catch him, the great, silly boy. No,no, Lancey--" and then as we came right in front, we saw what it was. Alady, a rather little lady, with dark hair--nice, wavy dark-brown hair,like what Evey's would have been if it hadn't been so short--and thebrightest, sweetest, dark-eyed, rather gipsy-looking face, was runningat full speed across the little lawn before the door, with Lancey, thebiggest boy of all, you know, after her. She was waving somethingwhite, a roll of paper, above her head, which Lancey was evidentlydetermined to get possession of, and behind him, in every direction itseemed at the first glance, were all the rest of the young Whytes--thethree sailor-suits, two girls, Evey and a fair-haired one, and two orthree more boys. Such a lot they looked! All rushing about, shoutingand laughing at the top of their voices. Suddenly somebody--Evey, Ithink--caught sight of us. There came an instant hush.

  "Oh dear," were the first words the lady uttered, as she hastened up tous. "I am so ashamed. You must think me out of my mind, Mrs Percy--itis Mrs Percy?" with a quick bright glance of questioning. "How good ofyou to come! We have been hoping you would. And this is Connie? I amso pleased to see you, dear."

  How charming she was. Not exactly pretty, but so bright and sweet andirresistible--prettier than Evey and not as grave, but yet quite likeenough to be her mother.

  "You must think me a terrible tomboy," she said, laughing again, andblushing a very little. "But we are in such spirits. It's so longsince we've been all together like this, for the big boys only came fromschool last week, and--"

  "Mother _is_ rather a tomboy," said Lancelot, coolly. "I think MrsPercy had best understand the truth from the first, and then she willnever be shocked at our goings on."

  "You impertinent boy," said his mother, laughing up at him. He was agreat deal taller than she. "You shouldn't waste your time in writingverses, instead of doing your lessons, should he, Mrs Percy?"

  This hint silenced Lancey effectually. And soon all the childrendispersed, and Mrs Whyte took mamma away into the house. Only Yvonneand the fair-haired girl, who, I knew, must of course be Mary, stayedwith me. I had not yet spoken--I had felt so completely bewildered bythe contrast between the real Mrs Whyte and the fancy picture I hadbeen drawing of her just the moment before, that no words came to mylips.

  Yvonne thought that I was feeling shy, I suppose, and to put me at myease she drew forward her sister.

  "This is `plain Mary,' Connie," she said. "I see I must introduce youformally. Doesn't she suit her name?" she added, and I could hear inher tone how proud she was of Mary.

  No wonder. Mary was _so_ pretty. She was very, very fair--and sheseemed even fairer beside her rather gipsy-like mother and sister. Butshe had dark eyes, much darker than mine; I am not speaking of myselfout of conceit, truly, but because I know that fair hair and dark eyesare thought pretty, as mamma has often praised mine, and Mary's hair isfairer and her eyes darker than mine, and she has a very sweetexpression, what is called an "appealing" expression, I think. Shestood there glancing up at Evey in a little timid way, as if accustomedto be protected and directed by her, that I did think so sweet. I hadnot one atom of jealousy--I am so glad I hadn't--in my thoughts as Ilooked at her, even though there was a _sort_ of likeness between herand me that might have made me feel jealous of her being so muchprettier. But then, this particular kind of envy has not been mytemptation; so it wasn't any goodness in me not to feel it. I juststood looking at Mary with a real nice pleasure in her sweetness. Andshe looked at me with a shy smile in her eyes, and Yvonne looked at usboth for a moment in silence. Then she gave a sort of jump and clappedher hands.

  "Connie," she said, "I knew there was something that made me feel sureI'd love you at once. Do you know you and Mary are really rather likeeach other? I wonder if the others have seen it?"

  I felt myself get rosy with pleasure.

  "Are we really?" I said. "I am so glad."

  And sweet Mary grew red too, when I said that. "I'm very glad you'reglad," she said, shyly. "Of course _I_ would like to be like you."

  And I think that afternoon sealed our friendship. How happy we were!We explored all the garden together, making plans for all sorts of nicethings, out-of-door teas, games of hide-and-seek, gardening andflower-shows (I will tell you about our flower-shows some other time--they were such fun), when the summer came; then we went into the houseand explored it too, spending most of our time in the girls' room, theroom with the rose paper, where the two little white beds were standingside by side and everything as neat as could be, though to my eyes,accustomed to much more luxury, it looked rather bare. But Evey wasfull of her plans for dressing up the toilet-table and adorning thewindows with blinds and ribbons to match.

  "I've been waiting for you to come to talk about it with us," she said."Connie has such good taste," she went on to Mary; "you know she chosethis paper."

  And though I had always fancied and had even, I fear, been rather proudof saying that I hated needlework, I found myself undertaking a share init all, quite cheerfully.

  "You'll join our poor work, won't you, Connie?" said Evey; "unless, ofcourse, you've got a club of your own already."

  And when I stared, she went on to explain that, busy as they were,busier still as their mother was, they all gave a certain amount of timeregularly every week to sewing for the poor.

  "You wouldn't believe how much one can do if one keeps to it," saidEvey. "And you know things that are neatly made are so much more goodto poor people than what one can buy. Once we had quite a proper club,and twice a year we had a shop--it was such fun. Mother says it is bestto let them buy the things when they can, though we always gave away_some_. I wonder if we can have a club here."

  "There is a sort of one I think," I said. "Anna Gale and her auntmanage it. But I'm sure it is stupidly done. They are so dull andstupid about everything."

  Evey glanced up quickly.

  "Mother is so clever about things like that," she said. "Perhapssomething might be done about it. I daresay she would talk about it toMiss Gale. There are a good many new ideas about such things now, andperhaps--perhaps it is a little old-fashioned here, and mother mightimprove it. I think Anna Gale must be a very good girl."

  "Oh, yes," I said contemptuously; "she's _good_ enough." Again Evey'squick little glance. I didn't quite like it.

  "Evey," I said, "you needn't look at me that way. I know it's wrong tosay unkind things of people, but when any one _is_ very dull and stupid,you can't say they're interesting and clever."

  "I don't think you needed to say anything. I wasn't asking you aboutwhat the Gales were," said Evey, in her rather blunt way. "I don't meanto be rude or laying down the law, Connie, only--"

  "Mother says," Mary interrupted in her shy way--"mother says it isalways so very easy to find fault and to see the worst of people. Itt
akes much more cleverness trying to see the best of them."

  I had begun to feel rather angry, but Mary's words made me think alittle.

  "Well," I said, "I daresay that's true. But, I don't like Anna Gale, Isuppose, and I daresay I've never tried to. Do you think that's wrong?You can't like everybody the same."

  "No," said Evey, "not the same. That's just the difference. Butthere's _something_ to like in nearly