"What a queer name—Reda," Cleo reflected, when once again they started over the rough road toward Cragsnook. "It ought to be pronounced as it is spelled instead of 'ree'—she looks red enough in that blazing outfit."
"But what a pretty accent the girl used," remarked Grace. "Do you suppose she's English?"
"Maybe from Boston," suggested Cleo, "but the old woman, I should judge, is a native of the whole geography, well beaten with an oceanic egg beater, or if not that conglomeration, I should guess she owned an entire island in the wildest ocean, where there were nothing but ship-wrecked rummage sails and old crow squaks."
"That's bad enough, anyway," commented Madaline, who seemed a trifle out of the picture, "and I think she is all of that and more."
"Just you watch the True-Treds make for the twin chestnuts!" orated Cleo. "Old Lady Reda had better look out for her lace sun bonnet and flowered petticoat. They may get mixed up in the shuffle."
"How about grandpop?" asked Grace. "What do you propose to do with him?"
"Smother him in his 'yarbs' and roots," pronounced Cleo dramatically, and when they entered the path to Cragsnook, busy brains were concocting marvelously daring schemes to bring about the rescue of Maid Mary.
"Do you think your Aunt Audrey will mind?" questioned Madaline, always sure to find an alibi for anything too risky.
"No, indeed," stoutly declared Cleo. "I shouldn't wonder but she would want to adopt Maid Mary for a model, with those Marguerite braids, and her far-away eyes. Oh, isn't it too exciting? Do you think we need tell Jennie?"
"I—wouldn't," replied Grace, fully conscious such a risk was not to be even thought of.