“Don’t it, Mis’ Puppy?” she says, “_Don’t_ it?” And we all felt the same way. Or similar. And we never said a word, but we told each other good night, I noticed, about three times apiece, all around. And out of the fulness of the lump in my throat, I says: “Ladies! I invite the Go-lightly club to meet with me to-morrow afternoon. Don’t bring anything but sandwiches and your plates and spoons. I’ll open the sauce and make the tea and whip up some drop sponge cakes. And meantime, let’s us get together everything we can for her.” And though hardly anybody in the village ever goes to anything two days in succession, they all said they’d come. By the time they got there next day we had carpet to sew out of some of our attics, and some new sheets to make, and some white muslin curtains out of Mis’ Puppy’s back room. And I explained to them that we couldn’t rightly put it to vote whether we should furnish up the Toll Gate House, because we didn’t have any president to put the motion, so the only way was to go ahead anyhow and do it; which we done; and which, if not parli-mental, was more than any mental, because it was out of our hearts. Right while we was in the midst of things, in come my roomer, Mr. Dombledon. He’d come in the back door, as usual, and plumped into the sitting-room before he saw we were there. He’d had Donnie with him that day, because I had to be out most of the forenoon, and I called to them to stop, because I wanted the ladies should see the little fellow. Donnie shook hands with us, all around, like a little general, and then: “What’s these?” says he, with his hands on the curtains in my lap. “A nighty for me?” “No, lambin’,” says I. “It’s curtains for a lady.” “Are you that lady?” he says. “No, lambin’,” says I. “A lady that ain’t got any curtains.” But this he seemed to think was awful funny, and he laughed out--a little boy’s laugh, and kep’ it up. “Ladies always has curtains,” says he, superior. “I donno,” says I. “I saw one yesterday that didn’t even have a carpet.” “Where?” asks Mr. Dombledon. It kind of surprised me to hear him speak up--of course I’d introduced him all around, same as you do roomers and even agents in a little town, where you behave in general more as if folks were folks than you do in the City where they ain’t so much folks as lawyers, ladies, milkmen, ministers, and so on. But yet I hadn’t really expected Mr. Dombledon to volunteer. “Down on the Tote road,” I says, “the old Toll Gate House. You ain’t familiar with it, I guess.” “Is this _hers_ curtains?” asks Donnie. “And can I have some pink peaches sauce like in the kitchen?” “They’s _hers_ curtains,” says I, “and if you’d just as soon make it plums, you shall have all of them in the kitchen that’s good for you.” And off he went outdoors making up a song about pink plums. All of a sudden his father spoke up again. “Do--do you need any more help?” he says. “Sure we do,” says I.