“Oh, that pretty place, with the stone pillars at the gate?”
“Yes,” went on her aunt. “But Mrs. Middleton and we are not—that is—”
“Oh, you’re not good friends, is that it?” volunteered Dick.
“Well, yes; I suppose that is it. You children are too young to understand, but let it be enough for you that I prefer you should not play with the little Middletons. There are other neighbours equally pleasant for your acquaintance.”
“All right, Auntie,” agreed Dick. “Cut out the Middletons. And now mayn’t we run out to play?”
“First, I’ll take you up and show you your playroom. It’s more for rainy days, as you seem to like to be out of doors in fine weather. But come and see it, anyway.”
The two aunts led the way, and the children followed to a large, delightful room in the third story.
There was a big table in the middle, and smaller tables and chairs about. There was a pleasant little writing-desk for each, well furnished with pretty writing materials. Low bookshelves ran round two sides of the room, and the other side showed a jolly big fireplace, and pleasant windows with deep seats.
A roomy, comfortable old sofa and a chest of drawers completed the furnishing.
“It isn’t finished,” said Miss Abbie, “because we don’t yet know your tastes.”