"Well, if folks come in unexpectedly, they'll have to take what we've
got and make the best of it." Flora tied a hat on over her light
hair as she spoke. "I don't see any other way for them," she added,
laughingly, going out of the door.

"It's all very well for folks to be easy," said her mother, with a
sniff, "but when she's had as much as I've had, I guess she won't
take it any easier than I do. I s'pose now I've got to take all these
things off, an' put on a clean table-cloth."

"That one doesn't look very bad," ventured her brother, timidly.

"No, I shouldn't think it did! Look at that great coffee stain you
got on it this mornin'! Havin' a couple of perfect strangers come in
to dinner makes more work than a man knows anything about. Children,
you take off the knives, an' pile 'em up on the other table. Be real
careful."

"I wonder if the parlor's so I can ask them in there?" Mr. Tuxbury
remarked, edging toward the door.

"I s'pose so. I ain't been in there this mornin'; I s'pose it's all
right unless the children have been in an' cluttered it up."

"No, we ain't, gramma, we ain't," proclaimed the children in a shrill
shout. They danced around the table, removing the knives and forks;
their innocent, pinky faces were full of cherubic glee. This occasion
was, metaphorically speaking, a whole flock of jubilant infantile
larks for them. They loved company with all their souls, and they