"But," objected Jean, "he'll only come back again."
"Yes," sighed Bettie. "I s'pose we will have to open the door. You do it, Marjory."
"I don't want to," returned Marjory, unexpectedly shrinking. "It seems too much like giving Rosa Marie into the hands of the enemy. After all, we're going to miss her dreadfully and Mabel'll be just about broken-hearted. She does get so attached to things—Oh! He's ringing again."
"We'll have to unlock the door," sighed Jean, placing her hand on the key, "but dearie me, I feel just as Marjory does about it. Knit fast, Mabel."
The key turned in the lock, but the girls did not need to open the door; the visitor did that. Then there were rapturous cries of "Mr. Black! Mr. Black!"
Mabel wanted to greet Mr. Black, too, for there was nobody in the world that was kinder to little girls than the stout gentleman who had just opened their door; but she remembered that the soldier lady (in spite of the Dover egg-beater heart) had remained seated, placidly knitting; so Mabel likewise sat still and plied her crochet hook.
"Hi, hi!" exclaimed Mr. Black. "What are you all locked in for? And here I had to ring four times when I came with a present—apples right off the top of my own barrel. Began to be afraid I'd have to eat them all myself, you were so long letting me in."
"If we'd guessed that it was you and apples," said Marjory, "we'd have met you at the gate."
"Where's the other girl?" asked Mr. Black's big, cheery voice. "Doesn't she like apples, too?"
"In the kitchen," chorused Jean, Marjory and Bettie.