The first evening was rather dull for all the party except Connie, whom Kenneth taught how to play cat’s cradle, and told her the names of the felines she was to see in the morning. The deacon nodded over his paper, while Mrs. Stannard exchanged her white apron for a black silk one and then knit assiduously on a sock which she said was for Harry, who was at school at Andover, but spending his vacation with a friend in Kentucky. “I didn’t know you had another son,” Mrs. Hart said, and then Mrs. Stannard told of her sister and Harry’s mother lying in the graveyard, and of his father lying in the Morris vault, somewhere in Kentucky. Very little was said of him, but the Morris family was dwelt upon at large as something to be proud of. Mrs. Hart thought she had heard of them, and said she had met a Mrs. Haynes, from Lexington, Ky., presumably the family Harry was visiting, and she found her respect rising a little for the Stannards, who were in a way connected with the Morrises, and whose nephew was a student in Andover and a guest at the Hayneses. At eight o’clock she told Connie it was time for her to go to bed, adding, “I’ll go with you, if you are afraid.” But fear was no part of Connie’s nature. She rather liked the idea of going alone; it made her feel more womanly. She did not, however, decline Kenneth’s escort up the stairs and through the hall, but insisted upon carrying the candle he lighted, and held it at such an angle that several drops of tallow fell on her dress and on the floor before she reached the door of her room. “Good-night, Connie. I suppose there is nothing I can do for you?” Kenneth said. “No, thanks,” Connie replied; then, still holding her dripping candle nearly upside down, she added: “Or, yes, if you will hear me say my prayers and keep me going.” Kenneth drew a long breath and stopped short, while she continued: “And if you will just unbutton me. I can’t reach ’em very well and hold the candle, too, and the kitten. I’ve got it, see?” She was squeezing it under her arm, while she put her hand to the back of her dress, trying to loosen the refractory buttons. Kenneth’s face was scarlet, but the one turned to him was innocent as a baby’s, and he began his task. He did not know anything about a child’s buttons, and his fingers felt like thumbs as he managed to undo them, while Connie hunched her shoulders and squeezed the cat, which she said she should keep all night if her aunt would let her. “I always have a doll at home,” she said, “and I wanted to bring one with me, but auntie would not let me. I wonder why?” Kenneth was not especially interested in dolls, and, having discharged his duty as maid, turned to go. But Connie was not through with him. “Ar’n’t you going to hear me say my prayers and keep me going? Jean always does,—that’s my maid.”