"If they did, dear, there would be no one to sell to," Cousin Charlotte explained.
Of them all Penelope did least to help. She had her flowers—quite a collection of them now. "But she doesn't do anything with them," complained Esther one day.
"They make the house pretty," urged Angela, always ready to defend her room-mate, "and they make our room so sweet and pretty."
"But she should try to sell them," argued Esther, "or—or do something. She seems to have forgotten all about helping Cousin Charlotte."
"She doesn't get much time," pleaded Angela, "by the time her lessons are done, and her organ lesson, and the practice, and her reading—she always reads for an hour a day, sometimes more. And—and there isn't any one here to sell flowers to—"
At that moment Penelope herself dashed in on them, her eyes dancing, her face glowing. "Oh, girls, what do you think?" she cried, as she flung her music-case on to one chair, her hat on another, and herself on a third.
"What?" asked Esther, as she picked up the music-case and straightened the cushion it had knocked over.
"Oh, do tell, do tell quick," urged Angela.
"Well!" sitting up and clasping her hands tight in an ecstasy of pleasure, "you know Miss Row has friends staying with her."
"Yes; but I don't see much in that to be excited about," said Esther.