"They were dropped,--and I picked them up," Rosamond answered,
mysteriously. "The owner never missed them."

"Why, Rosamond!" cried Stephen, looking up from his Latin grammar.

"Did!" persisted Rosamond. "And would again. I'm sure I wanted 'em
most. Hens lay themselves out on their underclothing, don't they?" she
went on, quietly, putting the white against the black, and admiring
the effect. "They don't dress much outside."

"O, hens! What did you make us think it was people for?"

"Don't you ever let anybody know it was hens! Never cackle about
contrivances. Things mustn't be contrived; they must happen. Woman and
her accidents,--mine are usually catastrophes."

Rosamond was so busy fastening in the plume, and giving it the right
set-up, that she talked a little delirium of nonsense.

Barbara flung down a magazine,--some old number.

"Just as they were putting the very tassel on to the cap of the
climax, the page is torn out! What do you want, little cat?" she went
on to her pussy, that had tumbled out of her lap as she got up, and
was stretching and mewing. "Want to go out doors and play, little cat?
Well, you can. There's plenty of room out of doors for two little
cats!" And going to the door with her, she met grandfather and the
cane coming in.

There was time enough for Mrs. Holabird to pull down the blinds, and