When he went home from school his heart stood still to see Miss Martha Rose, and Arnold Carruth's aunt Flora, and his aunt who was not his aunt, Miss Dorothy Vernon, who was visiting her, all walking along in state with their lace-trimmed parasols, their white gloves, and their nice card-cases. Jim jumped a fence and raced across lots home, and gained on them. He burst in on his mother, sitting on the porch, which was inclosed by wire netting overgrown with a budding vine. It was the first warm day of the season.
“Mother,” cried Jim Patterson—“mother, they are coming!”
“Who, for goodness' sake, Jim?”
“Why, Arnold's aunt Flora and his aunt Dorothy and little Lucy's aunt Martha. They are coming to call.”
Involuntarily Sally's hand went up to smooth her pretty hair. “Well, what of it, Jim?” said she.
“Mother, they will ask for—big sister Solly!”
Sally Patterson turned pale. “How do you know?”
“Mother, Content has been talking at school. A lot know. You will see they will ask for—”
“Run right in and tell Content to stay in her room,” whispered Sally, hastily, for the callers, their white-kidded hands holding their card-cases genteelly, were coming up the walk.
Sally advanced, smiling. She put a brave face on the matter, but she realized that she, Sally Patterson, who had never been a coward, was positively afraid before this absurdity. The callers sat with her on the pleasant porch, with the young vine-shadows making networks over their best gowns. Tea was served presently by the maid, and, much to Sally's relief, before the maid appeared came the inquiry. Miss Martha Rose made it.