"Whither away, Blanche Aurora?"
"I'm carryin' jell to the king," she announced.
"What's this?" Fred's eyes lighted curiously on the snowy napkin. "Something nice for King, eh? Bertram the first?"
"Lemon jell," announced Blanche Aurora, with a proud accession of lung power, and an evident desire not to be delayed.
"Well, Mr. King's over there in a hammock," said Whitcomb, looking doubtful. "I don't believe I need to go back."
"Go back? Of course not!" cried Madge.—"Ask for Mrs. Lindsay when you get to Miss Benslow's and she'll see to it. Come on, Fred."
Blanche Aurora gave the young lady one look, as cold and impersonal as china-blue optics are capable of bestowing, and moved on her way. Call for Mrs. Lindsay! Not likely, now that she knew the king was easy prey in a hammock.
"But poor King," protested Whitcomb, as he followed Madge's determined march. "Is it fair? No cotton for his ears."
"Oh, she probably won't see him at all. The young one will give the jelly to Mother and she'll attend to it."
Little Madge Lindsay knew of the swelling heart beneath the blue gingham frock. Blanche Aurora's confused and excited meditations had conferred royalty upon the mysterious stranger, and should she find him informally wearing a crown in his hammock, it would not astonish her in the least.