"But that was dear," said Ann, romantically.
"She simply does what she likes with Dad," said Ted, ruminatively. Rosemary, facing the others over the back of her chair, nodded. Ann had her arms about her knees. They were all idle.
"She got Dad to give me my horse," the boy went on, "and she'll get him to let us go off to the Greers' next month—you'll see! I can't think how she does it."
"I can remember the first day she came here," said Rosemary. She rested her chin in her hands; her eyes were dreamy.
"George! We were the scared, miserable little rats!" supplemented Theodore. Rosemary smiled pitifully, as if the mother asleep in her could feel for the children of that long-passed day.
"I was only six," she said, "and when we heard the wheels we ran—"
"That's right! We ran upstairs," agreed her brother.
"Yes. And she followed us. I can remember the rustling of her dress.... And she had roses on—she pinned one on Bess's little black frock. And she carried me down to dinner in her arms, and I sat in her lap."
"And that year you had a party," said Ann. "I remember that, for I came. And the playhouse was built for Bess's birthday."
"So it was," said Rosemary, struck afresh. "That was all her doing, too. She just has to want a thing, and it gets done! I'll never forget Bess's wedding."