ONE afternoon toward the end of August a group of girls sat in a room at
Miss Hatchard's in a gay confusion of flags, turkey-red, blue and white
paper muslin, harvest sheaves and illuminated scrolls.

North Dormer was preparing for its Old Home Week. That form of
sentimental decentralization was still in its early stages, and,
precedents being few, and the desire to set an example contagious, the
matter had become a subject of prolonged and passionate discussion under
Miss Hatchard's roof. The incentive to the celebration had come rather
from those who had left North Dormer than from those who had been
obliged to stay there, and there was some difficulty in rousing the
village to the proper state of enthusiasm. But Miss Hatchard's pale prim
drawing-room was the centre of constant comings and goings from Hepburn,
Nettleton, Springfield and even more distant cities; and whenever a
visitor arrived he was led across the hall, and treated to a glimpse of
the group of girls deep in their pretty preparations.

"All the old names... all the old names...." Miss Hatchard would be
heard, tapping across the hall on her crutches. "Targatt... Sollas...
Fry: this is Miss Orma Fry sewing the stars on the drapery for the
organ-loft. Don't move, girls... and this is Miss Ally Hawes, our
cleverest needle-woman... and Miss Charity Royall making our garlands of
evergreen.... I like the idea of its all being homemade, don't you? We
haven't had to call in any foreign talent: my young cousin Lucius
Harney, the architect--you know he's up here preparing a book on
Colonial houses--he's taken the whole thing in hand so cleverly; but you
must come and see his sketch for the stage we're going to put up in the
Town Hall."