"Good morning," said Mr. Downing. "Are you—Why! this is a very cozy little place. I had no idea that it was so comfortable. May I come in?"
"Ye-es," returned Mabel, eyeing him doubtfully, "but I think you're probably making a mistake. You see, we're not really-truly people."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Downing, with an amused glance at plump Mabel. "Is it possible you're a ghost?"
"I mean," explained Mabel, "we're just children and this is only a playhouse, not a real one. If you have anything to sell, or are looking for a boarding place, or want to take our census—"
"No," said Mr. Downing, "I don't want either your dollars or your senses. My name is Downing and I'm not selling anything. I called on business. Who is the head of this—this ghostly corporation?"
"It has four," said Mabel. "I'll get the rest."
Bettie and Jean, with grown-up gingham aprons tied about their necks, followed Mabel to the parlor. Mr. Downing had seated himself in one of the chairs and the girls sat facing him in a bright-eyed row on the couch. Their countenances were so eager and expectant that Mr. Downing found it hard to begin.
"I've come in," he said, "to talk over a little matter of business with you. I understand that you've been having trouble with your neighbors—exchanging compliments—"
"No," said honest Mabel, turning crimson, "it was apples and tomatoes. The Milligans are the most troublesome neighbors we've ever had."
"So-o?" said the visitor, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Why, I understood that it was quite the other way round. I'd like to hear your version of the difficulty."