"Sit down, children," Mrs. Simpson said quietly. "If you become too excited neither one of you will sleep tonight. Oh dear, Cindamine! Catsup all over your dress again!"
"I'll wash it, Mother," Cindy said cheerfully.
"I know, dear," her mother said, "but you're eleven now, going on twelve. Isn't it time you were becoming a lady, like Miranda?"
"Sure, Mom," Cindy said agreeably.
She sat in the trampled grass beside her sister, and their arms stole about each other. Pete Brent, a tall, lean, dark-haired man with friendly eyes and a ready smile, chuckled.
"I declare! If 'twasn't for that catsup, I couldn't tell 'em apart!"
"Neither can anyone else," their father said.
"Not unless they watched them," Mrs. Simpson spoke up. "Miranda's always the lady, and Cindamine always the tomboy. She's forever in some scrape."
"Cindy will be a lady some day," Mindy defended her twin.
"Sure I will, Mom," Cindy agreed. "How did I do?"