“Well, it isn’t,” said Louise energetically, “with people always asking after the white horse. I wonder why red-haired girls and white horses are supposed to go together?”
But nobody could tell her. They were all clustered about Mrs. Bryan and the manual, choosing names, and planning symbols, and you couldn’t hear yourself think. Winnie and Helen and Mrs. Bryan had planned to finish the evening by playing games, but all the girls were so busy talking that it was impossible to get a game in edgewise.
Presently Mrs. Merriam and little Florence came in with cocoa and sandwiches. And then, at about ten-thirty, the meeting broke up, after planning a bacon-bat for the next Saturday.
Winnie Merriam sat, as she loved to sit, by the dying fire. Her mother began to clear away the dishes, but Winnie stopped her with:
“Please wait a little while, and talk to me, mother. I haven’t had half enough sandwiches, and besides, the nicest part of a party is talking it over afterwards.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Merriam, sitting down across from her daughter and helping herself to something to eat. “I didn’t get much chance at the refreshments either, I was so busy helping you serve them. What was it you wanted to say particularly, dear?”
“I wanted to ask you about my name, mother. I wasn’t christened ‘Winnie,’ was I?”
“Why, no, dear—you know that. You were christened ‘Winona,’ after your grandmother—only somehow, we never called you that.”
“It’s a real Indian name, isn’t it?” asked Winnie.