affluent home of her parents required. Constance knew that, though the welcome offered her inside the house by the members of the family who chanced to be at home, would be hearty and genial, there was no one in there missing her—needing her. A pat from her father possibly, and a "Had a good time?" as she bent and kissed him; an absent-minded kiss from her mother; and from Christine or Adelaide, "There's mail for you up-stairs on your desk, Connie," would be all in the way of greeting.
But she was mistaken this time. She had no sooner announced her arrival by a quiet "Hello, people," from the threshold of the long living-room which stretched the length of the house on the second floor, than she was pounced upon by Christine.
"It's Connie! Home again! Come in, Connie,—we've news—all sorts," she exclaimed.
And even before Constance had taken off her things, or freshened up with a little soap and hot water, or had a chance to admonish herself sternly in her own mirror up-stairs with a grim "Cheer-up. For goodness' sake, cheer-up!" the various triumphs of her talented brothers and sisters were showered upon her pell-mell, all at once, by an ecstatic Christine.
There was always an accumulation of news
