It was a splendid afternoon, sharp and clear as a silver bell. Carlisle walked well, especially when one considers the sort of shoes she wore: she had the good free stride of one who walks for the joy of it and not because that is the only conceivable way to get somewhere. Nevertheless, just as she reached the Byrd doorstep, she was overhauled by the Cooneys, her poor but long-stepping relatives. There were only two of them this time, Henrietta and Charles, better known, from one end of the town to the other, as Hen and Chas. The Cooneys, who were young people of about her own age, greeted Carlisle with their customary simple gaiety. Both exclaimed over her striking attire, Charles adding to his sister: "Let Uncle Dudley stand next to Cally there, Hen--I'm better-looking than you, anyway." "I'd like to see a vote on that first. Recognize _mine_, Cally?" cried Hen--"the brown you gave me last fall? First appearance since I steamed and turned it. It'll stand a dye next year, too. But we haven't seen you for a long time, my dear. Did you know Aunt Rose Hopwood's staying with us now?" "Oh, is she? I hadn't heard, Hen. How is she?" "She's bad off," said Chas, cheerfully. "Deaf, lame, and cruel poverty's hit her right at her old home address. I guess she'll come live with us later on. Come walk out to King's Bridge for an appetite." Carlisle, with an impatient foot on the Byrds' bottom step, glanced from Chas to Hen, smiling a little. Her cousins were well-meaning young people, and she liked them in a way, but she often found their breezy assurance somewhat amusing. "Thank you, Chas," said she, "but I've an engagement with mamma. I'm to pick her up here now. I hope Aunt Molly's well?" "Fine," said Hen. "Come and see us, Cally. Why don't you come to supper to-morrow night?" The lovely cousin obviously hesitated. "Aw, Cally doesn't want to come yell in Aunt Rose Hopwood's trumpet, Hen--" "Aunt Rose Hopwood's going home to-morrow." "First I've heard of it. Frankly I doubt your word." For that Hen idly smote Chas's shins with her silver-handled umbrella (Carlisle's gift three Christmases before), at which Chas cried _ouch_ in such a manner as to attract the attention of bystanders. Henrietta liked this umbrella very much and commonly carried it, like a cane, through all droughts. "But," said she, reconsidering, "I think Hortense'll be off to-morrow, that's so. Well, come the first soon night you feel like it--" Carlisle had been doing some considering also, her conscience pricking her on account of the cousinly duty, long overdue. "I've an engagement to-morrow--so sorry," she said, rather hastily. "But how about one night early next week, say--Thursday, if that would suit--?" Chas and Hen agreed that it would do perfectly. Pot-luck at seven. Sorry she wouldn't walk on with them. Bully day for Shanks's mares. And so forth....