e
next thing, good people always die; and anyhow, my fun's all up. I never
can be gay if you sit around so solemn and goody-goody;" and Kat rumpled
up her hair and looked desperate.

"The idea, what a speech!" exclaimed Kittie, looking as if her new
resolutions had received a shock. "As if I couldn't be sensible without
being goody-goody, whatever that is. Pick up your broom and don't worry,
my dear. I'll never die of being too good."

Nevertheless, Kat looked forlorn all the rest of the day, and had spells
of solemnly surveying Kittie, as though some wonderful change had taken
place, and a pair of wings, or some equally astonishing thing might be
the result. Next morning was as beautiful as a spring morning ever could
be, and Kat took much comfort in the fact, that, in her haste to get out
to the pond, Kittie flew about the sitting-room in a hurry, whisked the
dirt under the stove, didn't stop to dust, except a rapid skim over the
top, left the piano shut, neglected to put fresh flowers under father's
portrait, and shut the blinds so as to hide all defects under a
comfortable shielding gloom. Kat looked on and felt relieved. Kittie
wasn't going to be so dreadfully good and proper after all, and much
consoled, Kat put on her hat, and dashed out to the pond, where Kittie
was already sailing about, with her head still ornamented in a dust-cap.

Bea had watched their early departure from the field of work, with some
misgiving, and decided to go and take a view of the house as soon as she
got the dishes put away, but just at that moment, the door bell rang;
and dear me, what should she do? The twins were at the farthest end of
the pond, yelling like bedlamites, Bea declared. Ernestine had finished
her small share of work, then put on her cocked-up hat with a blue bow,
and gone down town; so there was no one left to see to the door, and
smoothing down her hair, Bea hurried through the hall with flushed
cheeks and some anxiety.

True to a prophetic feeling which possessed her, the opening of the door
disclosed to view the last person to be desired, on that or any other
morning: Miss Strong, a regular Dickensonian old maid.

"Good morning, sweet child!" she exclaimed, the moment Bea's dismayed
face presented itself.

"Good morning, Miss Strong; will you come in?"

"Come in? Surely, dear. I want to see you all; and then I hear that you
and your sisters are such model little housekeepers, and I think it is
so lovely that