"Snowballs!" cried Marcus, triumphantly.
"Oh, no!" protested Lucy; "how could it be 'snowballs?' What is yours, Miss Martine?"
Martine handed a slip of paper to Lucy on which she had written a word.
"Yes, yes, that is it. Snowdrops, that is right, isn't it, mamma?"
"Yes, my dear; it is almost too simple a charade to set before our guest. It would have been harder to guess if we had tried to act it. Perhaps to-morrow we can act charades."
When the younger children had gone to bed, Martine enjoyed the quiet hour with Priscilla and Mrs. Danforth and Mr. Stacy.
"I had no idea Plymouth could be so interesting," she said. "I feel that my two or three more days will not be enough for all that I wish to see."
Nevertheless, Martine spent less time in actual sight-seeing than at first she had planned. The second day of her stay was so warm and springlike, that all voted for a mayflower picnic in the beautiful Plymouth woods. The next day was rainy—a genuine southerly storm, and no one cared to venture out.
"In town neither of us would think of staying in simply on account of a storm," protested Martine.
"I know it," responded Priscilla, lazily curling herself up in a corner of the big settle before the open fire. "But this is vacation, and home," she concluded, "and we can't behave just as we would in the city."