Into the silence floated the note of a far-away automobile horn. It was not so much a call or warning as a gay carolling, a long level ribbon of sound which unwound itself continuously and, drifting on the soft spring air, came nearer and nearer. It stopped for a moment ... started again ... continued more and more gayly ... ran up and down a trilled scale once more.... The stone images stirred uneasily. The horn grew louder.... In a moment it would pass Primrose Court.... The horn ended in a high swift call.... The car stopped.... The stone images lifted their heads. A girl, lithe but strong-looking with wide-apart big gray eyes gleaming in a little face, just touched in the cheek with pink, with masses of feathery golden hair hanging over her blue coat, was stepping out of the car. The images flashed upright; leaped to their feet. “It’s Maida!” Rosie Brine called as she sped like an arrow shot from a bow towards the automobile. “Oh, Maida! Maida! Maida! Maida!” “It’s Maida!” the others took it up and raced into the Court. CHAPTER II THE PLAN “When did you land?” “Why didn’t you let us know?” “How long are you going to stay?” “Did your father come too?” “Where’s Billy Potter?” “How’s Dr. Pierce?” And “Oh how you’ve grown!” Maida tried to answer them all; to hug each of the girls who were hugging her all together; to hold out a hand to each of the three boys who seemed all to shake both her hands at once; to manage to kiss Betsy Hale, who hearing the name Maida shouted, vaguely recalled that there had once been a Maida whom she loved; and who thereupon, hung tight to one of her legs; to manage to kiss Delia Dore who had no remembrance of Maida whatever but in imitation of Betsy, hung tight to the other leg; and in addition to call to Molly and Timmie and Dorothy and Mabel who remembered her perfectly and who danced like little wild Indians on the outskirts of the crowd, yelling, “Maida’s come back! Maida’s come back!” at the top of their lungs. All this took much less time to happen than it has taken to describe, and it was suddenly interrupted by the rapid opening of the door to the Dore yard. A little old Irish woman with silvery hair and with a face as wrinkled as a nut, came rushing out, her arms extended calling, “My lamb’s come back! My lamb’s come back!” Maida ran to her and hugged her ecstatically. “Oh, dear Granny Flynn!” she said, “Dear, dear Granny Flynn!” Then there appeared back of Granny Flynn, Mrs. Dore--Granny Flynn’s daughter; Delia and Dicky Dore’s mother--who had to be met in the same affectionate way. Mrs. Dore was a tall, brown, fresh-complexioned woman. It was from her that Dicky inherited his brown coloring and Delia her sparkling expression. “I’d never know you for the same child,” Mrs. Dore said.