"Well, what was it you wanted of me?" Alan asked, as soon as his
head reached the level of the attic floor.

"We didn't want you; you came," retorted Molly, with the frankness
of a sister.

"No such thing; you called me,--at least, Polly did." And Alan
marched across the floor to seat himself beside his champion, sure
that there he would find a welcome.

He was not mistaken, for Polly remarked protectingly,--

"I did call you, Alan, for we want to have some fun, this horrid
day, and we need you to stir us up."

"All right; how shall I go to work?" inquired Alan cheerfully.
"Shall I dance a breakdown, or will you play tag?"

"Let's play hide-and-seek," suggested Jean; "it's so nice and dark
up here, to-day."

"Wait a minute," interposed Florence. "Alan, we may as well tell
you now: Jean is going to write a play for us to act, and you are
going to be John Smith and have your head cut off."

"The mischief, I am!" with a prolonged whistle of surprise and
disgust. "It strikes me I have something to say about what shall
be done with my head."

"Stop using such dreadful expressions, Alan," said Molly primly.