ectable. Snooky, in her scarlet sweater and cap,
sniffed them from afar and straightway deserted her sand pile to take
her stand at the fence. She peered through the restraining bars,
standing on tiptoe. Blanche Devine, glancing up from her board and
rolling pin, saw the eager golden head. And Snooky, with guile in her
heart, raised one fat, dimpled hand above the fence and waved it
friendlily. Blanche Devine waved back. Thus encouraged, Snooky's two
hands wigwagged frantically above the pickets. Blanche Devine hesitated
a moment, her floury hand on her hip. Then she went to the pantry shelf
and took out a clean white saucer. She selected from the brown jar on
the table three of the brownest, crumbliest, most perfect cookies, with
a walnut meat perched atop of each, placed them temptingly on the
saucer and, descending the steps, came swiftly across the grass to the
triumphant Snooky. Blanche Devine held out the saucer, her lips
smiling, her eyes tender. Snooky reached up with one plump white arm.

"Snooky!" shrilled a high voice. "Snooky!" A voice of horror and of
wrath. "Come here to me this minute! And don't you dare to touch
those!" Snooky hesitated rebelliously, one pink finger in her pouting
mouth.

"Snooky! Do you hear me?"

And the Very Young Wife began to descend the steps of her back porch.
Snooky, regretful eyes on the toothsome dainties, turned away
aggrieved. The Very Young Wife, her lips set, her eyes flashing,
advanced and seized the shrieking Snooky by one arm and dragged her
away toward home and safety.

Blanche Devine stood there at the fence, holding the saucer in her
hand. The saucer tipped slowly, and the three cookies slipped off and
fell to the grass. Blanche Devine stood staring at them a moment.
Then she turned quickly, went into the house, and shut the door.

It was about this time we noticed that Blanche Devine was away much of
the time. The little white cottage would be empty for weeks. We knew
she was out of town because the expressman would come for her trunk. We
used to lift our eyebrows significantly. The newspapers and handbills
would accumulate in a dusty little heap on the porch; but when she
returned there was always a grand cleaning, with the windows open, and
Blanche--her head bound turbanwise in a towel--appearing at a window
every few minutes to shake out a dustcloth. She seemed to put an
enormous amount of energy into those cleanings--as if they were a sort