and a streak of black from the stove lay across one of her lean,
greasy wrists. The big stove was cooling now, ashes drifted from the
firebox door, and an enormous saucepan of slowly cooking beans gave
forth a fresh, unpleasant odour. At all the windows the fog pressed
softly.

"Are you going down town, Sally?" the mother asked.

"Well--I thought we would. We can if you want!" said Sally.

"If you do, I wish you'd step into Mason & White's, and ask one of
the men there if they aren't ever going to send me the rest of my
box of potatoes."

"All right!" Martie and Sally put their hats on in the downstair
hall, shouted upstairs to Lydia for the shoes, and sauntered out
contentedly into the soft, foggy morning. The Monroe girls never
heard the garden gate slam behind them without a pleasant yet
undefined sense of freedom. The sun was slowly but steadily gaining
on the fog, a bright yellow blur showed the exact spot where shining
light must soon break through. Trees along the way dripped softly,
but on the other side of the bridge, where houses were set more
closely together, and gardens less dense, sidewalks and porches were
already drying.

The girls walked past the new, trim little houses and the clumsy,
big, old-fashioned ones, chattering incessantly. Their bright,
interested eyes did not miss the tiniest detail. The village,
sleepier than ever on the morning of the half-holiday, was full of
interest to them.