The day was rather dark, a slate-colored sky promising snow before night, but the balmy air contradicted the warning, and Sim, with the top of the roadster down, urged the girls to hurry. A glance at her watch showed three-thirty, and their first call should not keep Granny waiting.
They were ready at last and piled in the car, Sim letting the clutch in so fast that the sudden start snapped their heads back and jerked the car forward as though Sim was just learning to drive. They went off in a gale of laughter but not in a cloud of dust, for the frozen ground of the driveway refused to part with any of its surface.
Sim drove as near as she could to the little white house where Hannah Howe lived. The cottage-like place was behind the more stately Sycamore Hall and to the left of the lane. The lane was a mere path just tunneled with trees.
Four small pillars, more like posts, supported the shingled roof of the low porch, and behind it were two square windows with a door in between.
The girls stood in dignified silence waiting for Granny to answer Arden’s knock, but she didn’t keep them long.
“Come in, my dears!” exclaimed the elderly lady like a grandmother in a fairy tale. “I’m glad to see you all looking so well and happy.”
Granny herself looked well and at least temporarily happy. She wore a long-sleeved, high-necked dress, dark-blue color with little pink flowers dotted over it. At her throat, precisely in the middle, glowed with sullen brightness the soft purple of an antique amethyst brooch. Her thick white hair accentuated the smooth tan of her skin, as she smiled a welcome.
The party trooped inside the little old house, and they were at once struck by the charm and quaintness of the little place.
With admiring “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” the visitors looked eagerly about, and Granny, pleased with their young enthusiasm, explained and pointed out the interesting features.
The fireplace, with a pot in place and hooks for holding others, was especially fascinating.