“Oh, I am so glad you will come, Poley, dear. And listen. When I get settled at Wolfscliff next summer you can invite any of your relations, or all of them, as many as the house will hold, to come and stay with you. It will be such a pleasant, healthful change for them, from the crowded city to the fine, open mountains.” “It would be heaven for them to see it only for a day. Why, we all went up the North River and saw the hills only from the deck of the steamer, and they thought that was paradise, and longed to be in it. What would they say to staying a week among the mountains?” exclaimed Poley. “Then they shall come. They shall all come,” responded Palma delightedly. “But, my dear child, what would the old gentleman say?” demurred Mrs. Pole. “Oh, Poley, you don’t know the Southern people. Neither do I, for that matter, except upon Cleve’s showing. But I am sure I can guarantee you and yours a welcome at Wolfscliff. And mind, we won’t have to send to market for meat, poultry and vegetables, nor to the grocer’s for flour, and meal, and lard, and eggs, and such things. Nearly everything, except tea and sugar, pepper and salt, and such, are produced on the farm, and cost next to nothing,” said Palma, speaking as she believed and proving how little she knew of the cost of labor or the worth of time on a farm. But Mrs. Pole, who was as ignorant of such a life as was her youthful friend, received every statement in good faith, and anticipated good days to come. She looked once more at her muffins, made the tea, and then went into the parlor to set the table for luncheon. Palma went into her bedroom to overhaul trunks and bureau drawers, to see what she could make of her scant wardrobe, in view of appearing among strangers in West Virginia. She had but three suits—the superb velvet dress given her by Mrs. Walling, which she thought could only be worn on grand occasions, and must be quite useless in the mountain farmhouse; the well-worn crimson cashmere now on her back, and in its very last days; the fine India muslin, now fairly embroidered, not with unnecessary fancy work, but with needful darns. These were all the dresses Palma owned, if we except the old, faded blue gingham wrapper in which Cleve had first found her in her garret. “I must get Poley to sponge and press the crimson cashmere, and then that will do to travel in, and with care it may last the rest of the winter,” she said patiently, as she locked her trunk and her bureau drawers and returned to her little parlor, where she sat down to work on a doll’s dress, or what might have passed for such. While thus engaged she sang a sweet nursery song that was a reminiscence of her own infancy. Presently Cleve came in, smiling.