Marge dropped her book and ran to join her sister Elsie, who by this time was on the back piazza talking to a boy who had just driven up in a farm-wagon.
"We want two dozen more,—all nice big ones, and by to-morrow, for it is only three days before Easter, and they must be boiled and colored to be ready in season."
The boy stared. "Colored?" he repeated in a puzzled, questioning tone.
"Yes," answered Elsie, "colored. Don't you color eggs for Easter?"
"No."
"How queer! But you know about them, of course?"
"No, I don't."
"Not know about Easter eggs? Where in the world have you lived not to know about Easter? I thought everybody—"
"I do know about Easter," interrupted the boy, sharply. "All I said was that I didn't know about your colored eggs."
"Oh, well, I guess it is Episcopalians mostly who keep that old custom going in this part of the country, and I suppose your people are not Episcopalians, are they?"