Jean strolled back from the other end of the veranda, and put her hand on Helen's shoulder.
"Larry, love," she said, looking down at her little brother, "your grammar is something to be deplored."
A fleeting smile lit up Helen's pale face and gentle brown eyes.
"Ah, here come the little culprits," she cried, starting forward. "Gladys, my precious baby, I have been worried to death about you. What naughty chicks to have staid so long. Willie, I can never trust you."
Willie was a grave little fellow, the eldest of the three children.
"Why, Helen, we weren't gone long. Gladys was good, and so was Larry—that is pretty——" he added deprecatingly. "The moment I said 'Come on, children,' we all started; only Gladys, she couldn't walk very fast, so Larry wouldn't wait for us. Oh," sighed Willie, his grave little face in a pucker at the recollection, "I would rather Mary went along with Gladys another time."
"Anyhow I was awful good, sister," lisped little Gladys, trying to frown on Willie, "only——"
"Only your short little legs would not carry you any quicker. Is that not so, darling? Well, since you were all good, there is nothing to scold you about."
"Helen's faith is sublime," laughed Jean, in an aside to Nathalie.
Helen took little Gladys in her arms, and sat down in a large rocker, which stood close to the front door.