Now this was but one of many similar instances which occurred during the childhood of Regina's two girls. They were so sharp--at least Julia was--and as she was devoted to Maudie, she always put her wits at the service of her sister, and the other children whom they knew not unnaturally resented the fact that they were invariably to be found in the wrong box in any discussion in which the Whittaker children had a share. So they became more and more isolated as the years went by. "Why don't we like the Whittakers?" said a girl to her mother, who had met Mrs. Whittaker and thought her a very remarkable woman. "Well, because we don't." "Yes, but why?" "Oh, well, we don't exactly know why--but we don't. They're queer." Have you noticed, dear reader, how frequent it is to set down those who are too sharp for you as "queer?" Well, it was just so at Northampton Park, and what the girl didn't choose to put into plain words, she stigmatized as queer. "And what do you mean by queer?" the mother asked. "Well, they _are_ queer. I think their mother must be queer, too, because their dress is so funny." "Is it?" "Oh, awfully. They always wear brown." "What are they like?" "Well, Maudie is fairish and Julia is darkish. Maudie has quite a straight nose and Julia's turns up--oh, it isn't an ugly turn-up nose, I didn't mean that. But they are such guys, and what is worse, they don't care a bit." "Really? What sort of guys?" asked the mother, who was immensely amused. "Well, they never have anything like anybody else. They've got long, pokey frocks made of tough brown stuff, like--er--like--er--pictures of Dutch children. And over them they wear long holland pinafores." "It sounds very sensible," remarked the mother. "And when they come out of school?" "In the winter they've got long brown coats, with little bits here--you know." "You mean a yoke?" "I don't know what you call it, mother--little bits, and skirts from it, and poke bonnets, and brown wool gloves; brown stockings and brown shoes, and little brown muffs. Oh, they really are awfully queer!" "And in the summer?" "In the summer? Well, in the summer they wear brown holland things. They're queer, mother, I can't tell you any more--they're queer." "I see," said the mother. "But in themselves," she persisted, "what are they like in themselves?" "Oh, I don't know. Nobody likes them much." "Poor children! I wish you would be a little kind to them." "Do you?" said the girl, rather wistfully. "Well, I will if you like, but it would be an awful bore, and they wouldn't thank us." "I see," said the mother. But she was wrong; she only thought she saw. So time sped on, and these two children grew more and more long-legged, more and more definite in character, and as they progressed towards what Mrs. Whittaker fondly believed to be originality and unconventionalism, so did her mother's heart bound and yearn within her.