within. After a minute's inviting pause, the singer piped up afresh.

"'Make me over in the morning
From the rag-bag of the world.
Scraps of deeds and duds of daring,
Home-brought stuff from far-sea faring,
Faded colors once so flaring,
Shreds of banners long since furled,
Hues of ash and hints of glory
From the rag-bag of the world.' Ahem!"

The concluding cough was so successfully convulsive that Robbie Belle's
mouth opened suddenly.

"It must be something important," she said.

Berta woke up from her trance. "Come!" she called.

At the first breath of the syllable, the door flew open with a specially
prepared bang, and Bea shot in with an instantaneous and voluntary
velocity that carried her to the centre of the rug.

"Oh, girls!" she exclaimed in the excited tone of a breathless and
delighted messenger bringing great and astonishing news, "it's raining!"

In the ensuing stillness, she could almost hear the disgusted thud of
expectation dashed to earth.

"Villain!" said Berta, and swung around to her interrupted poem.

Robbie's puzzled stare developed slowly into a smile. "I think that is a
joke," she said.

Then Bea laughed. She collapsed on the sofa and shook from her boots to
her curls. It was contagious laughter that made Robbie chuckle in
sympathy and Berta grin broadly at a discreet pigeon-hole of her desk.
When the visitor resumed sufficient self-possession to enable her to
enunciate, she sat up and inquired anxiously,

"Did you hear me sing?"

Berta regarded her solemnly. "We did," she answered.

"Yes," said Robbie Belle.

"Well, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to change. I'm going to be
made over, Mother April. I'm going to turn into a genius for a while.
I've always wanted to be a genius. It's no fun to be systematic and
steady and conscientious, and so forth, is it, Robbie Belle? At least it
isn't very much fun, considering what might be done with our
opportunities. So I intend to behave as if I had an artistic temperament.
I am going to let my work pile up, cut late, skip meals, break
engagements, never answer letters, give in to moods, be generally
irresponsible, and so forth, just like Berta. I'm going to----"

"What!"

Bea laughed again mischievously at the sound of outraged dignity in
Berta's voice. "Yes, I am. I have the spring fever: I don't wan