furniture greeted her strangely, and where a most jolly fire burned on the hearth. Felicia removed her mother's hat; Ken put her into the big chair and spirited away her bag. Mrs. Sturgis sat gazing about her—at the white cheese-cloth curtains, the festive bunches of flowers in every available jug, the kitchen chairs painted a decorative blue, and at the three radiant faces of her children.
Kirk, who was plainly bursting with some plan, pulled his sister's sleeve.
"Phil," he whispered loudly, "do you think now would be a good time to do it?"
"What? Oh—yes! Yes, go ahead, to be sure," said Felicia.
Kirk galloped forthwith to the melodeon, which Mrs. Sturgis had so far failed to identify as a musical instrument, seated himself before it, and opened it with a bang. He drew forth all the loudest stops—the trumpet, the diapason—for his pæan of welcome.
"It's a triumphal march, in your honor," Felicia whispered hastily to her mother. "He spent half of yesterday working at it."
Mrs. Sturgis, who had looked sufficiently bewildered became frankly incredulous. But
