ought
of her sister's pleasure, and said: "Mary is to have a little slice of
this, too. I wonder what she will say when she sees a certain pink
parasol that I saw in that box, and a white sash with pink rosebuds on
it, and slippers that I'm sure wouldn't fit anything else in the house
but her own wigglesome little feet."

Mary's hands came together ecstatically, with a long-drawn "Oh!" Then
she clasped her mother around the knees, demanding, breathlessly:

"Anything for Holland in that box?"

"Yes."

"Anything for Jack?"

"Yes."

"Anything for the baby?"

Mrs. Ware nodded.

"And you?"

Another nod.

"Then there isn't a single word in the dictionary good enough to fit!"
screamed Mary, excitedly, spinning around and around in the kitchen
floor until the red ribbons stood out at right angles from her head.
"There isn't a single word, Holland; we'll just have to _squeal_!"

At that she gave a long, ear-piercing shriek that seemed to go through
the roof like a fine-pointed needle. Holland and the baby joined in,
each trying to make a louder noise than the other. Their eyes were
tightly shut, their mouths wide open, and their faces red to bursting.

"There, there, children!" exclaimed Mrs. Ware, laughingly, as they
stopped to take breath. "The neighbours will think that the house is on
fire. We'll have a policeman after us if you make such a noise."

"The kettle is boiling over!" cried Holland, and Joyce flew to the
rescue. Jack went to change his wet clothes, and the three smaller
children trotted back and forth, pushing chairs to the table, and
helping to carry in the supper.

Many a bedraggled passer-by that evening looked out from under his
dripping umbrella as he neared the little brown house, cheered by a
babel of happy voices. The lamplight streaming across the wet pavement
drew his gaze to a window whose blinds had not been closed, and the
picture lingered pleasantly in his memory for many a day. It was the
Ware family at supper. And afterward, when the dishes had been cleared
away, there was another picture to shine out into the wet night: the
children unpacking the box that Jack had dragged out of its
hiding-place.

Mary paraded jubilantly around the room in her new slippers, the rosebud
sash tied around her gingham apron, the pink parasol held high above her
head, and her face such a picture of delight that one could not look at
her without smiling, too.

[ILLUSTRATION: "SHE SORTED THE RIBBON