"Yes," rejoined Molly scornfully; "and learn to make chicken salad
and angel cake and chocolate creams. That's all very well, but I
want to know how to do something that will help along, when we get
in a tight place. Hark! what's that?" she added, as a sudden
flurry of rain swept against the windows.

"That's cheerful!" said Alan, starting up. "I don't care about
getting a ducking. I wish I'd gone home before this."

"No matter," urged Polly. "Stay till papa comes; he'll be in at
nine, and then we'll give you an umbrella and things."

"Well." And Alan threw more wood on the fire and then settled back
into his former position; "I may as well, for I don't believe it
will rain any harder than it does now, and maybe it will stop. I
say, Polly," he went on; "tell us a story, there's a good fellow."

"I'm too tired to-night, Alan," Polly began; "I haven't an idea in
my head and--Is that you, papa?" she called, as the front door
opened and shut.

"No, it's mamma," and Mrs. Adams walked into the parlor.

"Jerusalem!" and Polly sprang up with a glad cry. "Wherever did
you come from?"

She was surrounded and dragged forward to the sofa, where Alan
took her cloak, Molly her bonnet, and Polly pulled off her gloves.