and want to stay with us all winter?"

"Just ladies?" queried Edith. "Do they have to be old?"

"I shouldn't take gentlemen," said Estelle. "Nurse wouldn't
approve, and ladies would be pleasanter. Perhaps there might be a
young mother and some ducky little children. How would you like
that?"

"Much better," responded Edith. "I don't want any fussy old freaks
with false fronts and shawls. They'd expect to be read aloud to
and waited on within an inch of their lives. I'd like some babies
to take down to dig and paddle. Do say you'll have children,
Sister."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I think we'll have to take the people
who want to come," replied Estelle sensibly. "Let's just hope that
somebody very nice will think we'd be nice to stay with. Come in
now, Edith. Annette has shrimps for supper and after we are
finished, we will put a card in the window and see what happens
next."

But the little white card that most modestly announced "Lodgings"
remained in the drawing-room casement for a week, and every day as
Edith came from school, she looked anxiously to see whether it was
gone. Its absence would mean that some one had looked at the rooms
with approval.

One afternoon as she came up the Terrace, the sight of an unknown
face at an upper window sent a thrill down her back. The card was