raced up the steps, followed by gleeful calls from two little boys on
the sidewalk.

"Where have you been?" asked Margaret. Then she said without waiting
for a reply, "If Martha Wallingford would come, I should prefer that
to Lydia Greenway."

Maida and Adelaide, flushed and panting, and both with mouths full of
candy, glanced at their mother, then Maida chased Adelaide into the
house, their blue skirts flitting out of sight like blue butterfly
wings.

Annie Eustace rose. She had noticed that neither Maida nor Adelaide
had greeted her, and thought them rude. She herself had been most
carefully trained concerning manners of incoming and outgoing. She,
however, did not care. She had no especial love for children unless
they were small and appealing because of helplessness.

"I must go," she said. "It is six o'clock, supper will be ready."
She glanced rather apprehensively as she spoke at the large white
house, not two minutes' walk distant across the street.

"How very delightful it is to be as punctual as your people are,"
said Margaret. "Good-bye, Annie." She spoke abstractedly, and Annie
felt a little hurt. She loved Margaret, and she missed her full
attention when she left her. She passed down the walk between
Margaret's beautifully kept Japanese trees, and gained the sidewalk.
Then a sudden recollection filled her with dismay. She had promised
her grandmother to go to the post-office before returning. An
important business letter was expected. Annie swept the soft tail of