parture unsolicited.

"Guess!" Pauline came back, carrying a small paper-covered parcel.
"Father sent it to you. He was over at Vergennes yesterday."

"Oh!" Hilary cried, taking it eagerly and sitting down on the steps.
"It's a book, of course." Even more than her sisters, she had
inherited her father's love of books, and a new book was an event at
the parsonage. "Oh," she cried again, taking off the paper and
disclosing the pretty tartan cover within, "O Paul! It's 'Penelope's
Progress.' Don't you remember those bits we read in those odd
magazines Josie lent us? And how we wanted to read it all?"

Pauline nodded. "I reckon mother told father about it; I saw her
following him out to the gig yesterday morning."

They went around to the little porch leading from Hilary's room, always
a pleasant spot in the afternoons.

"Why," Patience exclaimed, "it's like an out-door parlor, isn't it?"

There was a big braided mat on the floor of the porch, its colors
rather faded by time and use, but looking none the worse for that, a
couple of rockers, a low stool, and a small table, covered with a bit
of bright cretonne. On it stood a blue and white pitcher filled with
field flowers, beside it lay one or two magazines. Just outside,
extending from one of the porch posts to the limb of an old cherry
tree, hung Hilary's hammock, gay with cushions.

"Shirley did it yesterday afternoon," Hilary explained. "She was over
here a good while. Mrs. Boyd let us have the things and the chintz for
the cushions, Shirley made them, and we filled them with hay."

Pauline, sitting on the edge of the low porch, looked about her with
appreciative eyes. "How pleasant and cozy it is, and after all, it
only took a little time and trouble."

Hilary laid her new book on the table. "How soon do you suppose we can
go over to the manor, Paul? I imagine the Dayres have fixed it up
mighty pretty. Mr. Dayre was over here, last night. He and Shirley
are ever so--chummy. He's Shirley Putnam Dayre, and she's Shirley
Putnam Dayre, Junior. So he calls her 'Junior' and she calls him
'Senior.' They're just like brother and sister. He's an artist,
they've been everywhere together. And, Paul, they think Winton is
delightful. Mr. Dayre says the village street, with its great
overhanging trees, and old-fashioned houses, is a picture in itself,
particularly up at our end, with the church, all ivy-covered. He means
to paint the church sometime