“She says the talking machine isn’t good, but awful smart and clever,” she panted. “What do you suppose she means?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Helen. “Anyway, we know how to get there.”
The first lane, sure enough, led to a house, but there seemed to be no willows anywhere about it. Still houses often have names that have nothing to do with the facts, so the girls pressed on. The place had a vaguely familiar look to Winona and Louise.
“I’m sure I’ve come here before, by another way,” said Winona.
“I haven’t,” said Helen. “You must have come by water. I think the river’s somewhere back of us. If you ask me, I think one way’s enough to come.”
They lined up before the door and rang. But the bell, they discovered finally, was badly out of order. A “please knock” sign was blowing about the porch, they discovered still a little later. They knocked vigorously, and the door was finally unfastened by a draggled little girl of about eleven.
“Why—why, how do you do, Vicky!” said Louise in surprise. “Why, of course, Helen, this is Sandy’s house. Only this isn’t the same door, is it, that we came in by last time, Vicky?”
Vicky, who was as tousled as usual, shook her head.
“What’s the matter?” she asked stolidly. “Has Sandy been naughty?”
“No, indeed,” said Louise, “she’s as good as gold. Can’t we come in?” for Vicky didn’t seem to feel specially hospitable—she was holding the door on a crack, and was not her usual sunny self. “Sandy’s around here somewhere—at least she’s not in camp.”