“Yes, ma’am.” “Of course,” said Aunty Rose composedly, “I expected you to come here. I do not know what Joseph Stagg expected. But I did not suppose you would have a dog. Where is Joseph Stagg?” “He—he’s coming.” “With the dog?” “Yes, ma’am.” Aunty Rose seemed to take some time to digest this; but she made no further comment in regard to the matter, only saying: “Let us go into the house, Car’lyn May. You must take off your hat and bathe your face and hands.” Carolyn May Cameron followed the stately figure of Aunty Rose Kennedy into the blue-and-white kitchen of the old house, with something of the feelings of a culprit on the way to the block. Such a big kitchen as it was! The little girl thought it must be almost as big as their whole apartment in Harlem “put together”—and they had a tiny private hall, too. There was a great, deep, enameled sink, with hot and cold water faucets over it, and a big, shiny, corrugated drainboard beside it. Evidently Aunty Rose was not dependent upon the old well in the yard for her water supply. There was a shining copper boiler, and a great range, and set tubs of stone, and a big dresser, and a kitchen cabinet. The walls were covered with tile paper and the floor with linoleum, and there were plenty of braided mats about to make the room seem livable. At the cooler end of the kitchen the supper table was already set—for three. “Why,” mused the little girl, “she must have suspected me,” and a warmer glow filtered into the heart of the “suspected” guest. It was not till afterwards that she realised that the extra plate on the table was a part of the old-time Quaker creed—the service for the Unknown Guest. “Used to make me feel right spooky when she first came here,” Mr. Stagg sometimes said, “but I got used to it. And it does seem hospitable.” The little girl took off her plain black hat, shook back her hair, and patted it smooth with her hands, then plunged her hands and face into the basin of cool water Aunty Rose had drawn for her at the sink. The dust was all washed away and a fresh glow came into her flowerlike face. Aunty Rose watched her silently. Such a dignified, upright, unresponsive woman as she seemed standing there! And so particular, neat, and immaculate was this kitchen! Carolyn May, as she dried her face and hands, heard a familiar whine at the door. It was Prince. She wondered if she had at all broken the ice for him with Aunty Rose. “Oh,” the little girl mused, “I wonder what she will say to a mongorel.” CHAPTER III—GOING TO BED Mr. Stagg had fastened Prince’s strap to the porch rail, and he now came in with the bag. “Is that all the child’s baggage, Joseph Stagg?” asked Aunty Rose, taking it from his hand. “Why—why, I never thought to ask her,” the man admitted. “Have you a trunk check, Car’lyn?” “No, sir.” “They sent you up here with only that bag?” Mr. Stagg said with some exasperation. “Haven’t you got any clothes but those you stand in?”