"What’s what?" Peggy flew to answer her own question. At the sight which had alarmed Amy she stood as if petrified, her lips apart, and broken fragments of sentences escaping at intervals. Meanwhile the slow-moving figure had reached the door. From beneath the mysterious drapery came the sound of a stifled wail. Peggy came to herself with a start. "Dorothy!" she cried. "What have you got over yourself?" She touched the drapery with shrinking fingers. It was sticky, clinging. The fragment she touched fell off at her feet. "I smell--yeast," exclaimed Peggy sniffing. "Yeast!" She looked about her wildly. "Girls, it’s bread-sponge." "She’ll smother," exclaimed the practical Priscilla, and forthwith clawed an opening in the sticky mass, through which Dorothy’s face looked out. It was a solemn face at that moment. A suspicious trembling of the lips told that the tears were not far away. "I--I don’t like Sally," faltered Dorothy. "She put somefing in a pan, up high. And when I pulled, it covered me all up." "That’s the end of the picnic, girls." Peggy spoke with forced calm. "The end, as far as I’m concerned. Bread-sponge all the way from here to the kitchen. Bread-sponge in her hair and her eyebrows." "_I_ don’t care, Aunt Peggy," cried poor little Dorothy. "I’d just as soon go to the picnic all sticky." It was a melancholy ending for so many cheerful plans. The girls protested that the picnic without Peggy would only be an aggravation. They suggested putting it off till another day. But Peggy, usually distinguished for her sweet reasonableness, was not in a mood to make the best of things. "She’d only get into something else, girls," she insisted. "The glue pot or the molasses jug. Even if the fudge would be just as good to-morrow, you can’t say as much for the sandwiches. Go along and enjoy yourselves." While three girls wended their disconsolate way toward the Park car, a still more dejected procession of two climbed the stairs to the Raymond bathroom. Mrs. Raymond, hearing the sound of Dorothy’s stifled crying, came out to inquire the cause of the trouble, and uttered a horrified exclamation at the sight of her small granddaughter. Although divested of the greater part of the mass of bread-sponge, enough adhered to Dorothy’s plump person, to give her a most unique appearance. Mrs. Raymond patted the round, tear-stained cheek, and cast a comprehending glance at Peggy’s overcast face. "I wish you had gone with the girls, dear," she said. "I could have attended to this little mischief, and it’s hardly fair that you should lose your fun." "Just as fair as that you should spend your morning scrubbing Dorothy," Peggy returned. "You ought to know I wouldn’t leave it for you." Then with the honesty which was one of Peggy Raymond’s charms, she added, "I suppose I might better have gone than stay at home and act like a martyr. Never mind, mother. There’ll be more picnics some day."