“Sophy, do straighten up that table! Your chips are everywhere! And pick up the waste-basket!” cried Katherine, turning hastily from the window. “Why did you choose to-day of all others to make paper-doll dresses?” “Why, Kathie, you know I _always_ play paper dolls on Saturday, especially if it is a rainy one!” exclaimed Sophy, with reproachful emphasis; “and you told me yourself—” “Children, don’t waste the time in useless arguments,” interrupted Victoria. “Aunt Sophia is here, and we ought to have been ready for her, for we might have known she would come. Honor, it will give her fifty fits on the spot if she finds you on the sofa reading a novel at this hour. _Do_ get up and look brisk, even if you don’t feel so!” Victoria was flying about the room, as she spoke, moving a chair here, and straightening a rug there, beating up a down pillow which still bore the indentation left by the last person who had leaned against it, and whisking out of the way the large box which was standing open upon the table. “Here is your bargain of a silver handglass, Katherine. I advise you to keep that well out of Aunt Sophia’s sight,” she said; and then steps were heard upon the piazza, the front door was opened, and there came in at the same time and with equal force, Mrs. Wentworth Ward of Boston and a strong gust of wind from the northeast. “Why, Aunt Sophia!” exclaimed Honor, rising slowly from her sofa, which was in full view of the hall. “Is it really you?” “It is really I,” replied her aunt; “and who else should it be, or why should it not be I? How do you all do? Honor, what is the matter that you are lying down at this hour of the day? Victoria, take my waterproof to the kitchen to be dried, if you please. Katherine, your hand, while I take off my overshoes! Sophia, come here, child, and give me a kiss! You smell of flour paste and are very sticky. What have you been doing? There, now I am ready to sit down.” She walked into the dining-room and placed herself in a large chair at a discreet distance from the fire. She was a tall woman—all the Starrs were tall—and of proportionate width. Her forehead was broad and high, and above it the gray hair was parted and brushed smoothly back on either side of her face. Her nose was rather large and was perfectly straight, her teeth were exceptionally good, and her complexion might have been called “high colored.” She was president, or vice-president, or at least director, of no one knows how many charitable, literary, and musical societies in Boston, and she was noted for her rare executive ability. Among the other things which she tried to manage were her nieces the Starrs, and she found them by no means the least difficult. “You are brave to come to the country on such a day as this,” murmured Honor, sinking again upon the sofa, but not actually lying down. She was conscious that she was inviting censure both by speech and action.