"Eight's better," retorted Henrietta, diving into a silk bag and dragging forth a queer bundle of mottled fur.
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Black. "I didn't invite anybody like that to my picnic."
"Just a kitten," explained Henrietta, waving him for all to see. "I adopted him yesterday, but nobody in our house likes him, so I have to wear him—he's very tame."
"He looks," laughed Bettie, "just like the pudding Mabel made for me two weeks ago; purple, yellow, and white, all jumbled together—let's name him Ambrosial Delight."
"No," objected Henrietta, "he's already named Anthony Fitz-Hubert."
"Because he has fits?" asked Marjory.
"He doesn't. Just see how calm he is."
Doctor Bennett, Doctor Tucker, Marjory's Aunty Jane, and all the mothers stood on the sidewalk to see the merry party started on its way. Henrietta's dignified little grandmother sat in her carriage.
"Don't worry if we're late," said Mr. Black, turning to this trusting assemblage and not guessing how very late he was going to be. "The other end of our road may prove a trifle heavy; the day's so fine that we're not going to hurry, anyhow. Good-by till you see us again—we'll take the very best care of all your precious girls. Good-by, good-by——"