“She can be extremely disagreeable, for yesterday, while I was on one of my mountain prowls—mother was taking a nap—she was sitting on the veranda in one of her outlandish costumes, when an odd, little old lady came along in a black poke-bonnet, carrying a basket on her arm. As soon as Cyn saw that basket she jumped up and ordered the old lady off the premises, saying that we could not be bothered with peddlers. “The poor old soul immediately turned about and hobbled away, muttering and mumbling to herself, for Jan heard her as she came up the path from her miniature hillside farm. Mother was quite annoyed when she heard about it, for she said that she was undoubtedly one of the neighbors, and had brought us something in a basket to be friendly, as country people do. I think Cynthia should have allowed her to rest on the veranda, even if she was a peddler. “I must close my letter if I want to get it in this mail, as I have to walk almost a mile to post it. So, with a bushel of kisses and good wishes, I am as ever your friend “Nathalie Page. “P. S. Be sure you tell me all about your work, and if you are anywhere near the front-line trenches. I am wild to know. Again, with love, “Blue Robin.” As Nathalie stood by the window putting on her hat in front of the old-fashioned dresser, her eyes suddenly widened. “Why, isn’t that the strangest?” she queried, as she stepped nearer the casement and stared down at the farther end of the lawn, where, from between the fringe of woodland on the side dividing their garden from their neighbor’s, came the glimmer of a little red house, fronting the road. “Why,” said the girl, almost wonderingly, “that red house glimmers through the trees in the form of a cross.” Then her eyes brightened with the sudden thought, “I do believe it has come that way on purpose, and, yes, I am going to let it be my Red Cross insignia, warning me that I have work to do this summer by not losing my temper, and by being kind to people, even if it is _that irritating Cynthia Loretto_. “I wonder who lives in that little red house,” soliloquized the girl. “I must ask Sam. Ah, I remember now. I saw an old lady with silver-gray hair, the other day, poking about in that little flower-garden; she seemed to be weeding. Well, those flowers certainly repay her for her care, for they are a mass of bloom and color.” And then Nathalie, humming a snatch of melody, turned away and hurried down the stairway.