ing over the narrow planks that had been laid in the rivers
flowing along the curving walks. The first was Berta swathed in a hooded
waterproof; and the second, of course, was Beatrice, a tam flung askew on
her red curls, her arms thrust through a coat sleeve or two, a laundry
bag swinging from one elbow, and a tin fudge pan clasped tenderly and
firmly beneath the other, while with the hands so providentially left
free she stooped at every third step to rescue one or the other of her
easy-fitting rubbers from setting out on a watery voyage all by itself.

"Hi!" she gasped after a final shuffling dash, as she caught sight of
immaculate Gertrude, "I wore your overshoes. Hope you don't mind. They're
not very wet inside, and I brought over your things so that we can move
into our borrowed study right off now."

"Where are my things?" asked Gertrude with natural curiosity and perhaps
unnatural calm.

"Here," jerking the laundry bag, "it holds a lot--brushes, soap,
nightgown, toothpowder, fountain-pen, note-book, everything. Berta
carried your mending basket. You needn't bother one bit."

"I'll run back and forth for anything you want," volunteered Berta
hastily at sight of an irritable frown on the usually serene brow of
handsome Gertrude.

"You're cross!" commented Bea with a cheerful vivacity that was
exasperating to the highest degree, considering that everybody ought to
be worn down to an unobtrusive state of limp inertia after the three busy
months just concluded, "you've been cross ever since Sara----"

"Berta, lend me your gossamer and rubbers, please," when Gertrude was
unreasonably provoked she had a habit of snapping out her words even more
clear-cut than usual. An instant later she swept forth into the rain only
to stop short and hurry in again before the door had swung shut. "We
might as well look at the study first," she said in a more gracious tone,
"and we can draw lots to see who is to have the inside bedroom. I dare
say the change to this building will be a rest."

Berta took quick survey from the window to explore the cause for this
amazing wavering of purpose.

"Ah!" she murmured in swift enlightenment, "it's Sara. She's coming over
the path."

A peculiar expression flitted across Bea's ingenuous face--an expression
half quizzical, half sorry. "Then we'd better follow Gertrude's example,
and clear the track. She'll cut us dead again--that meek little mouse of
a girl! And I don't blame her for it