The arbor was at the farther end of the Harts' garden—a pleasant, mossy place with seats, and a great vine climbing over it. Mary put away her basket methodically, and joined Sue, whom she found twittering with excitement.
"Oh, Mary, what do you think? But first you must promise not to tell a living soul. Honest and true, black and blue! Promise, Mary, or my lips are sealed forever!"
"I promise," said Mary, without thinking.
Sue's tremendous secrets were not generally very alarming.
Sue drew a long breath, looked around her, said "Hush!" two or three times, and began:
"Isn't it perfectly splendid, Mary? The circus is coming to Chester on the 24th, and Clarice and I are going. It is going to be the greatest show in the world; the paper says so; and I've seen the pictures, and they are simply glorious. Isn't it fine? Clarice has asked me to spend the day with her at the hotel, and Mother says I may; and Clarice is going to treat me. Mary, she is the most generous girl that ever lived in this world. You don't half appreciate her, but she is."
"Who is going to take you to the circus?" asked practical Mary. "Mr. Packard?"
"Hush! No. That is the exciting part of it. We are going alone, just by ourselves."
"Sue! You cannot! Go up to Chester alone—just you two girls?"
"Why not? Clarice is much older than I, you know, Mary. Clarice is fifteen, and she says it is perfectly absurd for us to be such babies as we are. She says that in New York girls of our age wear dresses almost full length, and put up their hair, and—and all kinds of things. She says it's just because we live down East here that we are so countrified. And she knows all about going to places, and she has lots of money, and—and so—oh, Mary, isn't it exciting?"