“Good idea,” said Marjorie, approvingly. The girls called her “Duchess” because she had a high-and-mighty way of giving orders. Not an unpleasant way—oh, dear, no! Marjorie Bond was the favorite of the whole village of Middleton. Her stately air was due to the fact that she was rather tall for her sixteen years, and carried herself as straight as an arrow. She could have posed admirably for a picture of Pocahontas. Her dark, bright eyes were always dancing, and her saucy gipsy face was always smiling; for Marjorie had a talent for enjoyment, which she cultivated at every opportunity. The girls said she could get fun out of anything, from a scolding to a jug of sour cream. And that latter fact suggests Marjorie’s pet accomplishment, which, though prosaic, afforded much pleasure to herself and her friends. She was a born cook, and by experiment and experience had become a proficient one. Two years ago she had proposed the Cooking Club, and though not very enthusiastic at first, every one of the eight members would tell you now that nothing in Middleton was ever quite so much fun as the Cooking Club. “I’m sure I’ve thought of everything,” said the Duchess, wrinkling her pretty brows over a handful of scribbled lists. “You’re to bring the forks, Nannie, and a pair of blankets and a table-cloth, and don’t forget your napkin-ring, and your jolly Vienna coffee-pot; and, Betty, take your chafing-dish—we’ll need two; Millicent, you’re responsible for the spoons, and Jessie, knives. Lazy Daisy will take a hammock, and I’ll take one, too; and I’ve packed lots of sofa-pillows, and I hope Helen will take her banjo. I’ve lost my most important list, so I may have forgotten something. But I’ve packed towels, hand and dish, and a scrub-brush and a tack-hammer—and isn’t that all we need to keep house?—except this good-for-nothing little bundle, my own, my only Timmy Loo. Will you go with us, honey?” Marjorie picked up the bundle in question, who wagged his absurd moppy, silvery ears and his still more absurd moppy, silvery tail, and accepted the invitation with a few staccato barks of joy. “That means yes, of course,” said Betty; “his French accent is so perfect, even I can understand it. Well, good-by, Timmy; I’ll see you later. Can you take him on the train, Marjorie?” “No; he’ll have to ride in the baggage-car. But I’ve explained it all to him, and he doesn’t mind; and he’ll keep an eye on our trunks and wheels.” Timmy Loo barked again and blinked his eyes acquiescently, and Betty gave him a final pat on his funny little nose and ran away home. “I must go, too,” said Marguerite, rising as she spoke and picking a full-blown rose from the trellis above her head.