"What beautiful work!" exclaimed Rosemary as the old lady spread the knitted square over her knee. "How fine it is—isn't it very difficult?"
"Not a bit," Miss Clinton assured her. "I do it when my eyes get tired of reading print. I'll teach you how to make a spread, if you'll come see me now and then," she offered quickly. "They tell me they're worth seventy-five dollars apiece but I never sell mine; I give them to relatives and friends."
Rosemary and Shirley said good by and were half way down the path when the door was opened and Miss Clinton called after them:
"Bring the little girl with you, too; I'll get her something new to play with when she gets tired of the cabinet toys."
"Rosemary," said Shirley, skipping happily—she seldom walked, her brother said, but ran or hopped her way along—"Rosemary, what is there?"
"Where?" said Rosemary, puzzled.
"There," insisted Shirley, pointing behind her.
"Why, nothing—except Miss Clinton's house—you know that, Shirley," replied Rosemary.
"No, not Miss Clinton's house," said Shirley, shaking her head. "Next to that, Rosemary."
"You mean around the curve?" asked Rosemary, for the road curved sharply beyond the big maples that marked the line of Miss Clinton's property.