anted to know about the food--"
Robin retreated step by step toward the door, her limp exaggerated by
the movement. "I'm waiting for word from my guardian."

"_Robin_! Humph," Budge flung at the door as it closed upon the girl.
"If it wasn't that this house depended on me I'd drop my spoon and walk
out this minit, I would, or my name ain't Hannah Budge. Guests! Like as
not some of these Mill truck."

More than the snowstorm threatened the success of Robin's "at-home." For
Cornelius Allendyce was suddenly prostrated by a bad attack of
sciatica. And his sister declared she could not leave him; at such times
only her patient and faithful ministrations eased his intense suffering.

"I'll telephone to Wassumsic right away and don't you worry," she begged
of him, "they'll get along somehow or other."

"They'll have to," the guardian growled, between groans.

But before Miss Effie could telephone, Robin's telegram came. Cornelius
Allendyce opened it with indifferent fingers, read it, then rose upright
with such suddenness that a loud cry of pain burst from him.

"Will you listen to this? That child wants me to express fifty sleds to
the Manor, at once! Read it and see if I've gone crazy."

"There, there, lie still, Cornelius--I don't care if she wants fifty
sleds or fifty hundred. Send them to her and wait until you're well to
find out if she coasted on all of them or wanted them for kindling wood.
There--I knew it'd make your pain worse. Wait--I'll warm this!" All
solicitous, for her brother's face had twisted in agony, the sister
dropped the telegram and busied herself over her patient.

Her advice seemed good. "Well, send them. Tell them to rush the order,"
he groaned, then gave himself over to his suffering with, somewhere back
in his head, the thought that there was quite a bit more to being a
guardian than he had calculated.

So while Harkness and Budge and Mrs. Williams, pressed into service,
made the old Manor festive with flowers and pine boughs, Robin completed
the plans for her part of the party, and confided to Beryl that fifty of
the Mill youngsters were coming to the Manor to coast on the sloping
hillside.

"Robin Forsyth, what ever will they all say?"

"Who?" demanded Robin, with aggravating innocence.

"All the guests. Why, Robin, you're hopeless! You simply can't get it
into your head that the Forsyths are different from--the Mill people."

"They're not. And we haven't time to argue now. They're