"Ida Edgham ought to be ashamed of herself for not writing and letting you know that your father was sick before," said Aunt Maria. "She and Lily Merrill are about of a piece." "Maybe father didn't want her to," said Maria. "Father knew my school didn't close until next Thursday. If I thought he was very ill I would try to get a substitute and start off before." "But I know your father wouldn't have written for you to come unless he wasn't well and wanted to see you," said Aunt Maria. "I shouldn't be a mite surprised, too, if he suspected that Ida would write you not to come, and thought he'd get ahead of her." Aunt Maria was right. In the next mail came a letter from Ida, saying that she supposed Maria would not think she could come home for such a short vacation, especially a she had to stay a little longer in Amity for the wedding, and how sorry they all were, and how they should look forward to the long summer vacation. "She doesn't say a word about father's being ill," said Maria. "Of course she doesn't! She knew perfectly well that if she did you would go home whether or no; or maybe she hasn't got eyes for anything aside from herself to see that he is sick." Maria grew so uneasy about her father that she engaged a substitute and went home two days before her vacation actually commenced. She sent a telegram, saying that she was coming, and on what train she should arrive. Evelyn met her at the station in Edgham. She had grown, and was nearly as tall as Maria, although only a child. She was fairly dancing with pleasurable expectation on the platform, with the uncertain grace of a butterfly over a rose, when Maria caught sight of her. Evelyn was a remarkably beautiful little girl. She had her mother's color and dimples, with none of her hardness. Her forehead, for some odd reason, was high and serious, like Maria's own, and Maria's own mother's. Her dark hair was tied with a crisp white bow, and she was charmingly dressed in red from head to foot--a red frock, red coat, and red hat. Ida could at least plead, in extenuation of her faults of life, that she had done her very best to clothe those around her with beauty and grace. When Maria got off the car, Evelyn made one leap towards her, and her slender, red-clad arms went around her neck. She hugged and kissed her with a passionate fervor odd to see in a child. Her charming face was all convulsed with emotion. "Oh, sister!" she said. "Oh, sister!" Maria kissed her fondly. "Sister's darling," she said. Then she put her gently away. "Sister has to get out her trunk-check and see to getting a carriage," she said. "Mamma has gone to New York," said Evelyn, "and papa has not got home yet. He comes on the next train. He told me to come and meet you." Maria, after she had seen to her baggage and was seated in the livery carriage with Evelyn, asked how her father was. "Is father ill, dear?" she said.