rmission of her mother. She returned in a
moment. "Mother says we may go after Peter changes his blouse. Hurry up,
Peter. Don't keep us waiting."

Peter moved reluctantly houseward, and Suzanna ended: "Isn't it fine
that today was teachers' meeting so we could have a holiday?"

Graham looked wistfully at her. He had a tutor, and lessons alone he
felt could not be so interesting as when learned with a number of other
boys and girls.

"Let's go," said Suzanna, "we can walk slowly so Peter can catch up with
us. You mustn't get tired, will you, Daphne?" Daphne was very sure she
would not, and Peter reappearing at the moment, they all started away.
They went out into a sunny day left over from the Indian summer. Still
there was crispness in the air which exhilarated them, moving Peter to
sundry manifestations which Maizie coldly designated as "showing off."
He stood on his head, turned somersaults, cast his voice up to the
heavens, immediately spoiled the crispness of his clean blouse. He was
the fine, free savage, and his sisters finally gave up trying to tame
him.

"It's Thanksgiving weather, isn't it?" said Suzanna. "Come on, let's all
skip."

So they all fell into Peter's spirit, and thus it was that skipping and
singing they reached Drusilla's little home. It was very quiet in that
spot, the garden desolate, the flowers gone. The children instinctively
hushed their songs and went slowly up the front steps.

Graham rang the bell.

The kindly-faced maid answered the ring. "Oh, come in, children," she
cried. "Mrs. Bartlett certainly needs cheering today."

The children, thus cordially invited, trooped in. "Is Drusilla sad
today?" asked Suzanna.

"Well, she's thinking of the past," said the maid. "All day she's been
talking of her early home across the ocean, talking of the familiar
places of her childhood. She insisted even upon my preparing brouse for
her luncheon."

"_Brouse?_" The children were interested. They wanted to know what
brouse was. The maid smiled.

"Why brouse is just bread broken up into a bowl with hot water poured
over it and lots of butter and salt and pepper added. One day when Mrs.
Bartlett was a little girl, her mother took her to the home of an old
nurse, and there she had brouse to eat, and afterwards for one joyful
hour she was allowed to wear the clogs belonging to the nurse's little
granddaughter."

"I know what clogs are," said Graham. "They're wooden shoes that make a
lot of no