made a grown-up--and she
is--she is, really, father. She is down in the school-room so
important, and just like a regular grown-up, so I couldn't stand it."

"I see. You wanted to be a grown-up too--you are seven years old, are
you not?"

"I'm more. I'm seven and a half--Katie is only eleven."

"Quite so! Katie is young compared to you, isn't she, Firefly. Still, I
don't see my way. You wished to join the grown-ups, but I found you
sobbing on the damp grass under one of the shrubs near the avenue. Is it
really under a damp arbutus shrub that the grown-ups intend to take
counsel?"

"Oh no, father, no--" here the sobs began again. "They were horrid, oh
they were horrid. They locked me out--I banged against the door, but
they wouldn't open. It was then I came up here. I wouldn't have minded
if it hadn't been for Katie."

"I see, my child. Well, run to bed now, and leave the matter in father's
hands. Ask nurse to give you a hot drink, and not to scold, for father
knows about it."

"_Darling_ father--oh, how good you are! Don't I love you! Just another
kiss--_what_ a good father you are!"

Firefly hugged the tall doctor ecstatically. He saw her disappear into
the house, and once more pursued his way down the avenue.

"Good!" he echoed to himself. "Never did a more harassed man walk. How
am I to manage those girls?"

CHAPTER VIII.

SHOULD THE STRANGERS COME?

Helen and Polly were seated together in the pleasant morning-room. Helen
occupied her mother's chair, her feet were on a high footstool, and by
her side, on a small round table, stood a large basket filled with a
heterogeneous collection of odd socks and stockings, odd gloves, pieces
of lace and embroidery, some wool, a number of knitting needles, in
short, a confused medley of useful but run-to-seed-looking articles
which the young housekeeper was endeavoring to reduce out of chaos into
order.

"Oh, Polly, how you have tangled up all this wool; and where's the
fellow of this gray glove? And--Polly, Polly--here's the handkerchief
you had such a search for last week. Now, how often do you intend me to
put this basket in order for you?"

"Once a week, dear, if not oftener," answered Polly, in suave tones.
"Please don't speak for a moment or two, Nell. I'm so much interested in
this new recipe for pie-crust. You melt equal portions of lard and butter
in so much boiling water--that's according to the size of the pie; then
you mix it into the flour,