Garden. “How frightfully warm it is! We never have such intemperate heat at home in England.”
Involuntarily Mary’s troubled eyes met Mr. and Mrs. Moulton’s, regarding her kindly.
“Mary was anxious about the children, not the car, Mrs. Garden—Lynette,” said Mrs. Moulton.
“Mary is an anxious little hen in the Garden patch,” laughed her mother.
“I’m sure I don’t know what could happen to two such great girls as Jane and Florimel.”
“Of course nothing could happen to them, with Win another clucking hen, as bad as I am!” cried Mary, visibly glad to seize upon this reason for her youthful mother’s refusing to be anxious about the girls.
A telegram announcing the arrival of her trio
in New York, giving the address which would
connect them by the magic wire with home
and Vineclad, comforted inexperienced Mary
by anchoring her thoughts of them to a definite
spot, out of the space which had swallowed
them up.
The four girls—Dorothy, Nanette, Gladys, and Audrey—came to tea one day; Mr. and
