“There’s something you want to tell us Maida,” Dicky guessed shrewdly once. “But you won’t let yourself.” Maida blushed furiously but her eyes danced. She did not answer. Rosie, thereupon, continued to watch her closely. “Maida Westabrook, you’re almost bursting over something,” she said once; then as though with an inspiration, “You’ve got a plan of some kind and I know it.” Again Maida blushed and this time she laughed outright. “Wait and see!” was all she said, however. After they had talked themselves out, they showed Maida the accumulated treasures of the last year. The wood-carving, which was Arthur’s accomplishment and the paper-work which was Dicky’s, had improved enormously. The beautiful box of tools that Mr. Westabrook had presented to the one and the big box of paints that he had given the other, were of course important factors in the improvement. Laura still danced beautifully and she danced her latest dance for Maida--a Spanish fandango. Harold was raising rabbits and he showed his entire family to Maida. At the urge of all this work, Rosie, who hated the sight of a needle, had taken in despair, to knitting. She could endure knitting she told Maida because the work grew so fast. She herself said though that the less said about the results of her labor, the better. And Maida frankly agreed with her when she examined some of it. After this the group returned to the yard for more talk. Somehow they didn’t feel like playing games. Late in the afternoon, they sprinkled the flower beds and hosed the lawn for Mrs. Lathrop. Then as this made further sitting on the grass impossible, they retired to the tiny Dore yard with its amusing little flower bed and its one patch of grass. There was just about room for their group there. They sat down. Again they asked Maida about her travels. But now Maida was distinctly absent-minded. Suddenly in the midst of a description of Pompeii, there sounded a long, faint far-away call of an automobile horn. It broke, like a fire-rocket, into a flurry of star notes; then dropped a long liquid jet of sound which, again like a fire-rocket, dropped another shower of notes. The effect on Maida was electric. She came upright, quivering. “That’s father,” she said. “_Now_ I can tell you what I’ve been biting my lips all the morning to keep back. I didn’t want to tell you until he was here to talk to your fathers and mothers. But, oh, we’ve got such a beautiful plan for the summer-- Oh it’s so wonderful that it seems like a fairy tale.” The long jet of sound lengthened ... came nearer....