It took all Barbara’s leisure time from Monday until Thursday, which was the appointed day for the opening, to get the deserted, dusty carriage-house in order; to coax sulky Sam, the stable-boy, to move the accumulation of broken-down sleighs and phaetons into a corner; to hire two women to sweep, scrub, and dust floors, windows, and walls, in order to make the carriage-house fit for an afternoon’s habitation by the many clean, starched children whom she hoped to see. But it was worth it,—oh, yes, it was worth it!—and Barbara’s heart glowed with enthusiasm at the idea of driving the entering wedge of civic improvement into the flinty heart of staid Auburn. Meanwhile the house suffered. Dr. Grafton was called away at meal-times with conspicuous frequency. Gassy, David, and the Kid did not object greatly, for their imaginations were fired by the elaborate preparations for the “party,” which the Kid firmly believed to be held in honor of his birthday, three months past. But Jack protested bitterly. “Another ‘walk-around’!” he ejaculated, coming in at six o’clock Wednesday evening, and gazing blankly at the bare dining-room. “Say, Barb, a fellow that’s been canoeing all afternoon has an appetite that reaches from Dan to Beersheba. I don’t want to make you mad, but I feel mighty like Mother Hubbard’s dog.” Barbara looked up nervously. “Now, Jack, what difference does it make to you whether you sit at table with the others and use up hundreds of dishes, or eat in the kitchen and save my time? The bread is in the pantry with butter and raspberries, and there is some cold meat in the ice-box. Cut all you want. Besides, I have sent Charles over to Miss Pettibone’s for a blueberry pie.” Jack looked unwontedly cross. “Sometimes I think you are the camel that edged himself into the tent and crowded out his master,” he said. “These walk-arounds on Sunday nights were pleasant enough at first with everything piled on the kitchen table, so that we walked around with a sandwich in each hand; but it comes so often now that it seems as if ‘every day’ll be Sunday by and by.’” Barbara’s reply was checked by the sudden appearance of the Kid, bearing a disk in both hands. The paper covering was torn and spotted with blue patches, and a broad stain extended the full length of his blouse. He put his burden carefully on the table, and turned apologetically to Barbara. “I may have dropped that pie; I don’t remember,” he said. “N. P., no pie for me!” declared Jack. “Au revoir, Miss Grafton. Peter asked me over to supper, and there’s still time to overtake him.” Away went Jack, lustily chanting “The Roast Beef of Old England.” Barbara fed the Kid to the brim, feeling somewhat guilty when she met his clear young eyes full of affectionate trust in his big sister. It was too bad to offer up the family on the altar of philanthropy. The Infant’s cruel prediction as to a Jellyby future came back to her, but the ends justified the means in this case.