The minister interrupted, a mischievous ring in his voice. "I beg to remind you, Mrs. Lee, that 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' We intend to have a lark. To relieve your mind let me add that I myself shall go on an eminently respectable lark,—one that shall not estrange me from my flock, for instance. We intend for one day to divide our ages by two, and no remainder. You shall be one of us, or forfeit your money. Though poor in pocket, we shall be rich in experiences. Do you agree?"
There was much bustling commotion at Number 12 Cherry Street the next morning. "I've sent word to the children not to come to-day," said Miss Billy, putting on her hat and tucking her rain coat under her arm. "Poor little things,—they'll be disappointed. Well,—good-bye, Bea,—I shall not see you again till night."
"Now do be careful, Wilhelmina," warned Beatrice. "Don't buy anything you don't want, or make yourself conspicuous in any way, or——"
"Why," said Miss Billy, "I am going to gratify a heretofore ungratified whim. There are no conditions whatever. I have divided my age by two, the world is before me, and I have five dollars for spending money. Well, good-bye again; take care of yourself, dear," and Miss Billy sailed off down the street.
Theodore went next. He was attired in his very best clothes, and presented a fashionable appearance in a fearfully high collar and a white tie. Then the minister departed. Beatrice could hear him say to her mother in the hall, "I haven't had such delightful chills of anticipation since I took part in cane rushes at college twenty-five years ago. And I haven't the slightest idea what I'm going to do, either!"
Next Beatrice heard the door close after her mother's retreating form. She peeped out of the window and noted she carried a shopping bag. "The dear," she said. "She will buy us all stockings or gloves, and declare it was a purely personal whim. But it won't be keeping to the contract if she does!"
It was quite ten o'clock when Beatrice left the house. She was dressed in her best street gown, with dainty hat and gloves to match. As she closed the door behind her, Francis Lindsay was just coming out of his uncle's gate. He lifted his hat to her, and then crossed the street. "I hope Miss Billy isn't ill?" he inquired, with a shade of constraint in his manner. "I've heard, you see, of the child garden being discontinued to-day."
"No, she is not ill," answered Beatrice, feeling with embarrassment the colour creeping into her cheeks. "If I could only get over this silly habit of blushing every time a stranger speaks to me," she thought angrily,—and then blushed more furiously than ever.
There was nothing to do but walk along, and Francis, who evidently also was on his way down town, walked with her. He talked pleasantly, but Beatrice's replies were sadly disconnected.
"He noticed me blush," she kept thinking hotly. "No doubt he is conceited enough to attribute it to his own personal charms!"