stily swallowing their coffee so that they
could hurry off to the station. After the fit of autumn wind and rain,
another summer day had come, with a glistening sunlight which was doing
its best to cheer up the drooping flowers in the tiny garden.

"We don't need a cab. What are you talking about?" replied Nancy,
glancing out of the window. "It's a wonderful day, and we don't have
to make for all the puddles on the way to the station like ducks. By
the way, don't let me forget to stop at the bank. I dare say I ought
to take some money with me in case we can't get just what we want at
Frelinghuysen's. How much do you think we should have, Mother?"

"Seventy-five dollars ought to be enough," said Mrs. Prescott vaguely,
after a moment's calculation. Nancy whooped.

"Seventy-five! Good gracious--why, if I spend a cent over forty, we'll
have to live on bread and water for the rest of the month!"

"Well, just as you think, dear--you know best, of course," Mrs.
Prescott answered absently. "You two had better be starting. I wish
you would get Alma a new hat while you're in town, Nancy. I don't
quite like that one she has--it doesn't go with her suit."

Nancy pushed her chair back from the table.

"I'll trot out and see Hannah a moment. We have about thirty-five
minutes, Alma."

It took them twenty minutes to walk to the station. Alma was in high
spirits, Nancy still thoughtful. But the wind was up and out, tossing
the trees, rippling the puddles, which reflected a clear, sparkling
sky, and the riotous, care-free mood of the morning was infectious.

As the train sped through the open country, passing stretches of
yellowing fields, clusters of woodland and busy little villages, Alma
chattered joyously:

"Aren't you awfully glad about the party, Nancy? Don't you think we
can go to a matinee--it's such a deliciously idle, luxurious sort of
thing to do! I'm going to have chicken patties for luncheon, and lots
of that scrumptious chocolate icecream that's almost black. Don't you
love restaurant food, Nancy? It's such fun to sit and watch the
people, and wonder what they are going to do after luncheon, and what
they are saying to each other, and where they live. When I'm married I
shall certainly live in town, and I'll have a box at the opera, and
I'll carry a pair of those eye-glasses on jewelled
sticks--what-do-you-call-'ems--and every morning I'll go down-town in
my car and shop, and then I'll meet my h