The children looked up brightly, and held out their hands. "We are very glad to see you," said Marcus, the elder boy. "We hope you'll stay a long time," added George, the second. Little Lucy was too shy to speak to the newcomer, but she held up her head, as if expecting the kiss that Martine promptly bestowed on her. The resemblance between the three children was very striking, and they all looked like Priscilla, with their calm, blue eyes and blonde hair. "Say, Priscilla," exclaimed Marcus, recovering from the awful moment of being introduced to a stranger. "Say, now, I _can_ ride up with you, can't I?" "It's my turn," interposed George. "'Tisn't fair for you to ride every time." "Lucy can come with us," replied Priscilla. "There's no room for you boys." "Let them all come with us," cried Martine. "We won't mind being crowded." "Of course, I don't mind," responded Priscilla. "I was thinking of you." The carriage into which the children climbed was an old-fashioned carryall, the driver an elderly man, who addressed Priscilla without formality. "What did Aunt Sarah send me?" persisted George, as they drove along. "But, my dear, it isn't long since you had your Christmas presents," protested Priscilla. "You never come home without bringing something." "Wait and see," said Priscilla, squeezing Lucy. "It seems as if I hadn't seen a child for a year." "You were here Christmas; you didn't go away until New Year's," said the literal Marcus. "I mean that I haven't had a chance to talk to a child, not to mention squeezing one," responded the smiling Priscilla. "Aren't there any little girls in Boston?" asked Lucy, timidly. "Haven't your friends any sisters and brothers?" "Martine hasn't, and she's my best friend." "Oh, how too bad!" "That I'm Priscilla's best friend?" "No; that you haven't brothers and sisters." "I have a big brother, but he's in college." "Oh!" "Here we are! There's mother at the door." In her delight, Priscilla was almost ready to jump from the carriage before it had fully stopped. Again Martine stared at her friend. Could this be the cool, unemotional Priscilla? The greetings of mother and daughter could have been no warmer had they been separated for years instead of months. "There, there, Priscilla, Martine will think we have forgotten her--I should know you, my dear--" and Mrs. Danforth held out both hands to Martine, "from Priscilla's enthusiastic descriptions of you. I can see you are just what she said you were." From that moment when Mrs. Danforth kissed her lightly on the forehead, Martine felt perfectly at home. As Martine had approached the Danforth house, she had noticed that the house was a large, square wooden structure, painted brown. The paint, indeed, was faded in spots, and the general aspect was rather dingy.