On the arrival of the last guest, the games began. First they played “Who’s Got the Button?” Then they advanced to “London Bridge” and “Drop the Handkerchief.” All her guests thought it the proper thing to honour Mahala, and she had sped around the circle until she was weary. Mahala was given to precedents. She established one. She dropped the handkerchief behind Edith Williams. Glad of an excuse to get into the game, Edith snatched it up and ran. Junior saw and had a presentiment. Edith raced past him with intentions, but two things frustrated her. In her excitement her aim was poor and Junior cunningly side-stepped, dragging Sammy Davis with him. When the children shouted: “Junior, run!” Junior turned a deliberate head and refused to budge. All could see that the kerchief was behind Sammy. Sammy, delighted at the favour of the little rich girl, caught up the handkerchief and sped after Edith, only to find her in tears of rage and to get a well-aimed slap when he caught and tried to kiss her. The boys shouted, the girls “Oh-ed”—Mrs. Spellman raised her brows and cautioned behind an archly shaken finger: “Now! now! Little ladies! Re-mem-ber!” What all of the children always remembered was that Edith had chosen Junior and that he had evaded her. Someway her discomfort consoled the others. She was rich; she was Mahala’s best friend. She had lost her temper and been rude, and Mrs. Spellman had chided her. In their hearts most of them felt a little less unhappy than they had been; a trifle less constrained. It is very probable that Mahala was the only child at her party who was completely happy. Every pleasure she ever had enjoyed in her life she had experienced under the watchful eyes of her father and mother. She was accustomed to their constant restrictions, their persistent precautions: “Be careful of your dress,” “Don’t shake out your curls,” “Don’t damage the furniture,” “Don’t touch the lace curtains.” Her heart was so full of spontaneous enthusiasm, her body was so healthy, her brain was such a blessing, that all these millions of “don’ts” had left no mark upon her. Spontaneously as breathing, she answered: “Yes, Mama,” “I’ll be careful, Papa,” “Yes, thank you!”—and went straight ahead with her pleasure. The other children followed her lead, but they were awkward, their movements were stilted and perfunctory. They were afraid of the lady of dainty precision whose quick eyes were following their every movement in the expectation that they would do some damage. They were afraid of the wealthy dry-goods merchant, who was so punctilious in his courtesies, so immaculate in his dress, so self-contained in his personality. To them, the party did not mean really to throw off restraint and to have a natural, healthful, childish evening; it meant to get through with whatever was to be done in such a creditable manner that they would not be subjected to constantly whispered admonitions of “don’t” and “be careful.”