"Janet," groaned Cynthia, "if that isn't just like you! You ought to be called 'The Great American Dropper,' for everything goes from you."
"Never mind," returned Janet, cheerfully. "Willy, you pick them up while I see who's coming. I hear wheels. It's a station carriage."
"Is it?" cried Cynthia. "Can it be already?"
"It's Aunt Betsey," was Janet's next piece of information.
"Oh!" came from Cynthia, in disappointed tones.
"Why, who did you think it was?" asked her young sister, turning and surveying her calmly and critically. "Aren't you glad to see Aunt Betsey? And why is your face so very red? Are you expecting any one else?"
"No, only the boys," said Cynthia, busying herself with the scattered silverware.
"The boys! I don't see why your face should look so queer for them."
Mrs. Franklin glanced at Cynthia quickly.
"Come," said she, much to her daughter's relief, "we must go and welcome Aunt Betsey."