four people, so the Maynards just filled it comfortably.

It was a lovely soft summer day in the very beginning of June; the
kind of day that makes anybody feel happy but a little bit
subdued. The kind of day when the sky is so blue, and the air so
clear, that everything seems dreamy and quiet.

But the Maynard children were little, if any, affected by the
atmosphere, and though they did seem a trifle subdued, it was a
most unusual state of things, and was brought about by reasons far
more definite than sky or atmosphere.

Kingdon Maynard, the oldest of the four, and the only boy, was
fourteen. These facts had long ago fixed his position as autocrat,
dictator, and final court of appeal. Whatever King said, was law
to the three girls, but as the boy was really a mild-mannered
tyrant, no trouble ensued. Of late, though, he had begun to show a
slight inclination to go off on expeditions with other boys, in
which girls were not included. But this was accepted by his
sisters as a natural course of events, for of course, if King did
it, it must be all right.

Next to Kingdon in the swing sat the baby, Rosamond, who was five
years old, and who was always called Rosy Posy. She held in her
arms a good-sized white Teddy Bear, who was adorned with a large
blue bow and whose name was Boffin. He was the child's inseparable
companion, and, as he was greatly beloved by the other children,
he was generally regarded as a member of the family.

On the opposite seat of the swing sat Kitty, who was nine years