in her hat."

Mary glanced at her critically. "No," she said, slowly. "She is not
exactly pretty now, but she's the ugly-duckling kind. She may turn out
to be the most beautiful swan of them all. I like that the best of any
of Andersen's fairy tales. Don't you? I used to look at myself in the
glass and tell myself that it would be that way with me. That my
straight hair and pug nose needn't make any difference; that some day
I'd surprise people as the ugly duckling did. But Jack said, no, I am
not the swan kind. That no amount of waiting will make straight hair
curly and a curly nose straight. Jack says I'll have my innings when I
am an old lady--that I'll not be pretty till I'm old. Then he says I'll
make a beautiful grandmother, like Grandma Ware. He says her face was
like a benediction. That's what he wrote to me just before I left home.
Of course I'd rather be a beauty than a benediction, any day. But Jack
says he laughs best who laughs last, and it's something to look forward
to, to know you're going to be nice-looking in your old age when all
your friends are wrinkled and faded."

Rob's laugh was so appreciative that Mary felt with a thrill that he was
finding her really entertaining. She was sorry that Joyce's letter came
to an end just then. Her mother's last warning had been for her to
remember on all occasions that she was much younger than Joyce's
friends, and they would not expect her to take a grown-up share of their
conversation. She had promised earnestly to try to curb her active
little tongue, no matter how much she wanted to be chief spokesman, and
now, remembering her promise, she relapsed into sudden silence.

All the way out to the Valley she sat with her hands folded in her lap,
on the seat opposite Joyce and Rob. The car made so much noise she could
catch only an occasional word of their conversation, so she sat looking
out of the window, busy with her thoughts.

"Sixty minutes till we get there. Now it's only fifty-nine. Now it's
fifty-eight--just like the song 'Ten little, nine little, eight little
Indians.' Pretty soon there'll just be one minute left."

At this exciting thought the queer quivery feeling inside was so strong
it almost choked her. Her heart gave a great thump when Joyce finally
called, "Here we are," and Rob signalled the conductor to stop outside
the great entrance gate.

"The Locusts" at last. Pewees in the cedars and robins on the lawn;
everywhere the cool deep shadow