The next morning was so clear, warm, and bright, that Barbara’s spirits rose to fever heat. This was the day of her opportunity to loosen the bondage of Auburn mothers, and to take the first step toward raising them to higher standards of ease and culture. Her face beamed as she sped downstairs to do the daily tasks which awaited her. Breakfast was ready long before any one appeared to partake of it; dishes were washed in haste, beds made in a trice,—just this once!—and dusting passed over entirely. All Barbara’s morning was spent in planning games, in decorating the carriage-house with flags, in going to Miss Pettibone’s for the dozens of cookies which she had ordered, and in finding cool space in the refrigerator for twelve bottles of milk. The children were to come at two; and at half-past one Barbara sat on the porch, dressed in a simple white gown, waiting for the first arrival and for her assistant, Mrs. Enderby. At five minutes after two, there were no children. At ten minutes past, still no children. At fifteen minutes after two, Mrs. Enderby’s fat, placid self waddled up to the doctor’s gate. “My children are coming along,” she said. “It’s awful warm. I’ve brought a palm-leaf fan. I can fan the children, if you want me to. Any come yet?” “No, not yet,” replied Barbara. She had been awaiting the arrival of Mrs. Enderby with that desire for moral support which a new undertaking always brings upon its authors. Mrs. Enderby, as the mother of six children, might well be expected to furnish any amount of support derived from experience; but somehow, as Barbara looked at her, she felt that she had made a great mistake. A cushion cannot serve as a propelling-board; and poor Mrs. Enderby looked very cushiony. She sat rocking slowly and evenly on the porch. “If no one comes by three o’clock,” she said, “I think I’ll leave and go over to Main Street to see the new moving pictures. I forgot about them when I promised to help.” “Oh, I am sure some children will come,” Barbara replied hastily. “It is such a fine chance for the mothers to rest.” At quarter of three, it seemed to the confused girl that all Auburn was invading her lawn in a body. Streams of small children, dragged along by elder brothers, sisters, nurses, and mothers, descended upon the house like a flood. The air resounded with the shrieks of suddenly deserted youngsters, with the threats and warnings of their departing guardians, with the consolations of Barbara, Mrs. Enderby, and Gassy herself. Just as suddenly as they had come, all the natural protectors left, with singular unanimity, Barbara thought. It was not at all as she had planned. There had been no grateful approach of a mother at a time to meet the white-robed, calm hostess; no pleasant chat, no graceful reassurance of a child’s safety. But an enormous wave had broken upon the Grafton house and as quickly retreated, leaving thirty-nine pebbles of assorted sizes on the shore. Thirty-nine! Barbara gasped.