Hilda was a year older than Cricket, for she was eleven in June, and Cricket was ten in August. By reason of this extra year, she always thought Cricket should do just as she, Hilda, wanted. Hilda was an only child, and lived with her mother and grandmother, who thought her perfect. Cricket, on the other hand, was very used to giving up her own way, as children in a large family generally are. Hilda was a quiet, demure little girl, with polite, grown-up manners. She always remembered to say “How-do-you do!” and that mamma sent her love, and she never forgot any errand she was sent on. Cricket was a heedless little witch, and rarely, by any chance, remembered anything she was told to do. Her father always said that any errand she was given meant two, for she was never known to bring home both her package and her change at the same time. Hilda was pretty, with big brown eyes and long, orderly, golden curls. She was plump and straight, and rather proper. Cricket had short, brown curls, every one of which took a different kink, and gray-blue eyes that twinkled like merry little stars. She was thin and tall for her age, and her papa used to tease her by calling her long legs “knitting-needles,” and offering them to mamma for her fancy knitting. Every morning Hilda called for Cricket on her way to school. If Cricket had gone off earlier, having been sent on some errand, as often happened, she left a little red stone on the gate-post, as a sign to her little friend that she had gone. If Hilda came by early and couldn’t stop, as seldom happened, she picked up the little red stone from its hiding-place, and left it for Cricket to see. But, usually, Hilda turned in at the gates promptly at twenty minutes of nine, and walked up the long avenue, around to the side piazza. Then she would open the door, and call gently up the side staircase, “Ready, Cricket?” A voice from above would answer, promptly, “I’m coming. Have you got your sums?” and Cricket would come out of her room at the head of the stairs, giving a last, smoothing touch to her kinky hair. Then she would plunge down stairs, usually arriving at the bottom by way of the bannisters, provided she did not trip at the top and come down head-foremost. Next would follow a wild search for her hat, until she remembered she had left it last night in the grape arbour; then her sacque must be found, and that was probably hanging on some tree,—where she had taken it off to climb better. Strange to say, her books were generally at hand, for heedless Cricket loved to study. Hilda always carried her school-books in a neat little bag, for she said that a strap bent the edges of the books. Cricket strapped hers as tightly as possible, for she liked to swing them by the long end as she walked along. Besides, they made a splendid thing to throw at a stray cat,—which she never hit.