“Mrs. Brock would like you to come right over, Miss Randall,” said Rhoda, when the trio presented themselves before the Black Book table where the maid was sitting.
“How exciting!” cried Anne. “What do you think she wants?”
“I’ll have to go and find out, I suppose,” sighed Patricia wearily. The strain of the week was beginning to tell on even her sturdy constitution, and she longed to go to bed.
“Come back as soon as you can,” begged Anne, going as far as the door with her, “and tell us all about it. We won’t have many more talkfests.”
“No; and it makes me just sick to think of leaving here the last of next week,” whispered Patricia sadly, dashing away a couple of tears.
“Never mind, old dear,” said Anne. “Maybe something will turn up to bring you back next fall.”
When the maid at Big House ushered Patricia onto a large screened porch, she was astonished to see Jack sitting beside a lamp whose soft light illuminated the entire veranda. After brief greetings had been exchanged, Mrs. Brock said abruptly:
“I have a story to tell you children.”
Her visitors exchanged amused glances over the appellation.
“I’ll make it brief; for I know that the reminiscences of old people bore the young. When I was a girl, about your age, I had two very dear chums: one was Mary Pierce.”