loated in from outside, others came down from their nests in
Miss Frean's own trees to partake of her hospitality.

This evening, appearing with the more regular visitors, was a
golden-winged warbler, splendid with his conspicuous yellow wing bars.
Close behind him came a pair of tanagers.

The female Tory did not recognize until Memory Frean explained that she
was a dull green olive in color, unlike her brilliant, scarlet-coated
husband.

In fact, Tory and Miss Frean did not go indoors until, from somewhere
deep in the woods, a whippoorwill began his evening call.

In the meantime Tory had happily forgotten there was any subject to be
discussed between herself and her friend that might not be an
altogether happy one.

She did think of it, however, while she was eating her supper on a
small table in Memory Frean's living-room, drawn up before a small
fire.

The night was not particularly cool, yet the fire was not uncomfortable,
and had been lighted at Tory's request.

The older woman had finished eating and sat holding an open magazine
in her hands.

Tory's eyes studied the room, with which she now had grown familiar,
with the same curiosity and pleasure. The room was so simple and odd.
The hundreds of old books in their worn coverings, only a few new ones
among them, lined the walls. By the window, the couch was covered with
an old New England quilt, of great value, if Tory had realized the
fact. The furniture was so inexpensive, the little pine table before
her, the larger one with Memory Frean's lamp and books and a bowl of
flowers, the chairs and long bench.

What a contrast to her own austere and handsome home in Westhaven, now
the property of her uncle and aunt, Mr. Richard Fenton and Miss
Victoria Fenton. If Memory Frean and her uncle had not ceased to care
for each other perhaps there would have been no little House in the
Woods.

Tory finished her supper and her reflections.

"Memory Frean, what is it Miss Mason wished you to talk about to me?
How am I failing as a Girl Scout?"

When no one else was present she used the older woman's first name,
loving its dignity and soft inflections.

Memory Frean put down her magazine.

"You are not failing, Tory, not in one sense. You are trying to
accomplish too much. This is, of course, another form of failure. Take
your dishes in to the kitchen and then sit here on the stool by me."

Five minutes after she continued:

"You see, Tory, it is with Kar