e, who, blue feathers floating, was also absorbed in
watching the stream of embarking excursionists.

Mrs. Tinneray, after a whispered consultation with Mrs. Bean went up
and nudged her; without ceremony she pointed,

"Your sister's down there on the wharf," she announced flatly, "come on
over where we are and you can see her."

Frivolous Mrs. Tuttle turned and encountered a pair of eyes steely in
their determination. Re-adjusting the gold cage more comfortably on its
camp-stool and murmuring a blessing on the hooked-beak occupant, the
azure lady tripped off in the wake of her flat-heeled friend.

Meanwhile Mr. Tinneray, standing well aft, was calling cheerfully down
to the little figure on the wharf.

"Next Summer you must git your nerve up and come along. Excursions is
all the rage nowadays. My wife's took in four a'ready."

But little Mrs. Cronney did not answer. Shading her eyes from the sun
glare, she was establishing recognizance with her cerulean relative who,
waving a careless blue-mitted hand, called down in girlish greeting,

"Heigho, Hetty, how's Cronney? Why ain't you to the excursion?"

The little woman on the wharf was seen to wince slightly. She shifted
her brown basket to the other arm, ignoring the second question.

"Oh, Cronney's good--ony he's low-spirited--seems as tho he couldn't get
no work."

"Same old crooked stick, hey?" Mrs. Tuttle called down facetiously.

Mrs. Bean and Mrs. Tinneray stole horrified glances at each other. One
planted a cotton-gloved hand over an opening mouth. But little Mrs.
Cronney, standing alone on the pier was equal to the occasion. She shook
out a small and spotless handkerchief, blowing her nose with elegant
deliberation before she replied,

"Well--I don't know as he needs to work _all_ the time; Cronney is
_peculiar_, you know, he's one of them that is high-toned and nifty
about money--he ain't like _some_, clutching onto every penny!"

By degrees, other excursionists, leaning over the railing, began to
catch at something spicy in the situation of these two sisters brought
face to face. At Mrs. Cronney's sally, one of the funny men guffawed his
approval. Groups of excursionists explained to each other that that lady
down there, her on the wharf, in the brown, was own sister to Mrs.
Josiah Tuttle!

The whistle of the _Fall of Rome_ now sounded for all aboard. It was a
dramatic moment, the possibilities of which suddenly gripped Mrs.
Tinneray. She clasped