“I’m not coming back to lunch, Nancy,” she casually told Nan. “I’ve looked up that bunch of little ragamuffin newsies I used to chum with before I went away. I could not find them all, but I found two or three, and they’ll find the rest--one, Tony, whom I liked a great deal, is dead, poor little chap; was run over by a motor truck, they tell me. I’ve been thinking I missed my chance to do more than amuse them and give them a little pleasure when I was here; I’m going to see if I can make amends. I told them I’d give them the price of their papers if they’d spend the afternoon with me, take a holiday. They didn’t seem to object! I’m going to take them out to the picnic glen on a hike, and give them a good time--I hope! I went out there yesterday and hid tin boxes, filled with candy, around in the rocks, and under the shrubbery, enough for each to have one; they’ll have to divide fairly if anybody finds more than one. And when they’ve worked down some of their spirits I’m going to tell them a story, and lead up to my point--missionary point, you know! Good plan?” “It’s a dear plan, Cis!” cried Nan. “What a Cis you are! I’d like to be good your way!” “Fiddlesticks! My way is to try to make up the least bit for not being half-way good, never once caring to give the little chaps a push in the right direction. You don’t have to pay up for lost chances, Nan,” cried Cis impatiently. “I could have done almost anything with those boys then. Well, that’s milk that is not only spilled, but soaked down into the ground; no use crying over it. If you need me, Nan, if the baby begins to talk, or has the croup, or anything like that, you’ll find me at the picnic glen.” Cis laughed, a little shame-facedly as she made it clear to Nan where not only she, but anyone else who happened to want her might find her. At half past one Cis, with a fringe on her garment’s edge, of small boys, and a few larger ones, went briskly swinging out toward the pretty country which surrounded the little city. They were bound on a four mile walk; they would end it, at the pace they were taking it, in something over an hour and a quarter. Cis ordered her troop to sing, herself leading the dubious chorus, sung in as many variations of key and tune as was possible to the number singing. The words held most of the time in place; even little flat-faced Jimmy Devlin, who sang on one note, situated in the depth of his diapraghm, kept valiantly to the time, so the tortured music held the feet to their task. The glen was really pretty. It was damp and fragrant with the spring moisture and odors; with the delicious earth newly released from frost, the little shoots, the new growths of bark; somewhere out of sight were violets, and on the rocks saxifrage, clustering tiny white stars on an erect stem.