Every lawn in town flew yards of dainty garments all belaced and beruffled; many small frocks and waists having seen much service were patched and mended to see more, there was an epidemic of ribbons, curling-irons, and fancy slippers, which grew worse as the great day approached, and when it came at last—as fine a day as one could wish—each house sent forth its quota of shining-faced, bedizened merry-makers to besiege the Towers' gates.
The smaller children were directed to the library, where they were captured by the larger girls, decorated with tissue-paper favors and set loose; "like a flock of birds and butterflies," as Hermione said, or "a plague of hungry locusts," to quote Ivy, who stood on the porch at the front door watching their flight.
"I don't want this old red cap," declared Claude.
"And I want a yellow one like Lawa's weaf," wailed Lois, while Nettie, for once figuring as amiability, with a blue top-knot on her golden tresses, only lingered with the others to give them countenance, as it were.
"Shoo, shoo!" cried the unfeeling Ivy, waving them away with her skirts. "Who are those boys who went past just now, looking so much amused, Laura? The short one stared at you as if he knew you."
"I didn't notice," returned Laura, glancing after the lads.
"It's that boy you made buy the white pitcher," said Alene.
"The other looks like one of Mark Griffin's soldiers of misfortune. Hoy, Mat!" Ivy hailed the latter in passing. "Who are those boys?"
"Bud Waters and Artie Orr; they came with Mark Griffin and Jack Lever,—there's Jack now."
"That thin boy leaning on the cane? I wondered who he was!"