He dragged a low cricket to the window, and, standing upon it, looked out at the sodden brown lawn, the leafless trees rocking in a late October gale, and the gray windswept sky. Big raindrops hurried nowhere in particular down the window-pane, and Phil amused himself by racing them with his finger. And presently he spied Susan.
“Come on, come on!” he shouted, knocking on the window, quite careless of the fact that Susan couldn’t possibly hear him. “I’ve been waiting forever. Come on!”
The little figure in blue waterproof cape and hood, Susan’s pride, hurried down to the stone wall, through the gap, and across Phil’s lawn. Here was a puddle, and the blue waterproof hopped nimbly over it. Just one peep into the empty dog kennel, and Phil heard the side door shut, and knew that Susan would be there in a moment.
He waited impatiently, his eyes at the crack of the nursery door, since the cold halls were forbidden him. He heard Susan and his mother talking, and at last up she came, a box under her arm.
“See what I’ve brought,” said Susan. “Grandmother sent it. And your mother gave me some, just now, too. We will each have a long string of them.”
Susan sat down on the hearth-rug and opened the box. It was full of buttons, large and small, dull and bright, white and colored, and these she poured out in a little heap upon the floor.
“Grandmother sent a long thread for each of us,” and Susan pounced upon a small parcel at the bottom of the box. “She told me how to do it, too. You string the buttons, as many as you like, and one of them is your ‘touch button.’ You must never tell which one that is, because who ever touches that button must give you one of his. Do you see?”
“But won’t you even tell me, Susan?” asked simple Phil, who wanted to share all things with his friend, even to dark mysteries like “touch buttons.”
“Why, yes,” said Susan generously, “if you will tell me yours.”
Phil nodded and rummaged in the button heap.