their luncheon either before or after, as
they liked.

The boys were both good sailors, and understood a boat perfectly. Their
grandfather Maxwell had trained them well from the time they were wee
bits of boys, and even before his death, three years before, he had
trusted them to go out alone.

But the next day the excitement began in earnest, and there was hurrying
to and fro, and consultations over what to take, and what to wear, and
what to do, and proposals for this, and objections to that, till the
whole house was in a whirl.

"Children, you couldn't make more preparation if you were going to
Europe," cried distracted auntie, finally, as all the girls burst into
her room for the fortieth time, as she was trying to take a nap that
afternoon. "I don't know where your sketch-book is, Edna. Yes, wear
your sailor caps. Of course you'll wear your sailor suits, and not
ginghams. Yours is torn, Edna? Then, my dear, please go and mend it
directly. Your fishing-tackle is in the lobby, by the side kitchen door,
Cricket. You left it in Billy's room, and he brought it over. Yes, I
told cook to make some chocolate cake, Eunice. Now scamper, every one of
you. I'm going to lock my door now, and don't anybody dare to come and
disturb for an hour."

But within five minutes a small voice called through the keyhole,
imploringly:

"'Scuse me, auntie dear, but _couldn't_ we take George W.? he's just
begging to go, and I know he'll be good."

"Scat!" cried auntie, and Cricket scatted.

"Sha'n't we take some books, in case we get becalmed?" suggested Eunice,
as they all finally rested on the piazza, and tried to think of
something else to get ready.

"Of course. Sometimes we are becalmed for an hour, Hilda, and it's
awfully stupid."

"I'll take 'Jack and Jill,'" said Cricket. "And, oh, girls, let's take
our blank books and pencils, so we can write on our stories for the
'Echo' if we want to."

"I won't, and that's flat!" said Edna, decidedly. "Going on a picnic
for fun, and writing stories! What do you think I'm made of, Cricket?"

"Sugar and spice, and all that's nice," returned Cricket, cheerfully.
"Did I tell you, girls, that Hilda is going to write a story for our
next 'Echo?' 'Our estinguished contributor, Miss Hilda Mason!' Doesn't
that sound fine? And she's written some poetry, too! Isn't she lovely?"
and Cricket hugged Hilda in a sudden burst of affection.

"This is the first poetry I ever wrote," said Hilda, tryi