“Wait a minute,” Mrs. Parks called after him; “ask if they can put me up fifty sandwiches, some of each kind, for ten o’clock to-morrow, and pack them in a box, and if they know where a family named Lawton live hereabouts,—the Adam Lawtons.” Then to Mrs. Van Kleek, “The Senator is going to take those four old California chums of his, that come to-night, trout fishing somewhere up this way to-morrow, to a place called Muzzle Guzzle, or some such name. I wished to send a nice luncheon out in the bus with the camping stove and the under cook to have it hot for them, but no, the Senator has ordered sandwiches—plenty of sandwiches, with Scotch and soda. They are to be driven only to the foot of the hills, and then walk for the rest of the day. He says they want to forget who and where they are for once,—be boys and all that sort of thing, you know,—so if I could get the soda and sandwiches here it would be quite delightful. “How long he stays! I believe I will go in myself and see to the matter, for my curiosity is quite piqued. Will you come? No—very well, I’ll not be gone a moment,” and Mrs. Parks, her delicate robes trailing behind her, crossed the dandelion-studded sward toward the house, with a swish and swirl of skirts, and a step as elastic as that of a young girl. Laugh, as has been the foolish fashion, at those women who come out of the West to receive the chill of eastern polish; yet they bring us a better gift than they take, that of buoyancy of heel, head, and heart that we greatly need. Mrs. Van Kleek meantime adjusted her head, heavy with comfortable sleep, and gratefully entered the Land of Forty Winks, evidently for a protracted visit. Hesitating as to whether front or side door was the legitimate entrance for wayfarers, and deciding upon the latter, Mrs. Parks, rounding the corner hurriedly, came face to face with Brooke, who was coming up from the garden bearing a great bunch of lilies-of-the-valley, while Tatters trotted beside her carrying a basket that held still more. “Brooke Lawton at last!” and Mrs. Parks put out her arms and, to Johnson’s amazement, clasped Brooke, flowers and all, in a hug of spontaneous pleasure, that made the girl’s heart beat quick for many a day, as she thought of it. “Is this quaint, delightful place an inn as well, and are you stopping here?” queried Mrs. Parks, holding Brooke off at arm’s length, first looking at her and then sweeping the surroundings with a comprehensive glance. “No, it isn’t an inn exactly,” replied Brooke, mischief lurking at the corners of her eyes and mouth, “though I’m staying here. I am the Sign of the Fox, and this is my home! Now that you are here, pray come in and see mother, while I make you a bouquet from my very own garden in remembrance of the hothouse lilies you sent us when father was first ill.”