“Yes, and the peacocks at her father’s place, some of them white,” Arthur interrupted. “And don’t you remember,” Harold went on, “we all thought she was crazy when she said that once he gave her for a birthday present her weight in twenty-dollar gold-pieces.” “And a wonderful birthday party,” Laura added eagerly, “with a Maypole and a doll-baby house big enough to go into and live--” “I don’t wonder we didn’t believe it all,” Rosie declared with conviction, “It sounds like a fairy tale. And then it turned out that she was the daughter of a great millionaire and _every word_ of it was true. Do you remember how we asked Mr. Westabrook at Maida’s Christmas tree if it was all true and he said that it was?” “I’d like to see those white peacocks,” Dicky said dreamily. “I’d like to see that doll-baby house,” Laura added wistfully. “I’d like to see the gold comb and brush and mirror with the diamonds,” Rosie declared, “and that dress with the roses and the diamond dew-drops. I like to look at precious stones. I like things that sparkle.” At this thought, she herself sparkled until her eyes were like great black diamonds in her vivid brilliant face. “I’d like to see that pile of twenty-dollar gold-pieces,” Harold said. “Oh I wish she’d come back,” Rosie sighed. The sparkle all went out of her face and she stopped swinging. A door leading into Primrose Court opened with a suddenness that made them all jump. A boy with big eyes, very brown and lustrous, lighting his peaked face and straight hair very brown and lustrous, framing it, came bounding out. He ran in the direction of the group on the lawn, and as he ran he waved something white in his hand. The doves flew away before him in a glittering V. “Hurrah!” he yelled. “Gee, how Dicky can run!” Arthur Duncan exclaimed. “Who’d ever believed that one year ago, he was wearing an iron on his leg? He--” “Oh what is it, Dicky?” Rosie Brine called impatiently. Dicky had by this time reached the Lathrop gate. “A post card from Maida,” he shouted. “Does she say when she’s coming home?” Laura asked quickly. “No,” Dicky answered. He threw himself down among them; handed the post card to Rosie who had leaped from the hammock. It passed from hand to hand. Harold, the last to receive it, read it aloud. “Love to everybody and how I wish I could see you all!” was with the date, all it said. “Nothing about coming home,” exclaimed Rosie, “Oh dear, how disappointed I am.” “Where’s it from?” Arthur asked, as though suddenly remembering something. “The last post card was from Paris.” “London,” Dicky answered. “London,” Arthur echoed, “she told me that when she came home, she’d sail from England.”