that had only found its way there of late.

"Jumped all over her? What kind of language do you call that, Margaret
Pratt Stillman?" reproved Marjorie, with her best grandmother air. "If
you are not careful, the habit of using slang will grow upon you."

"Oh, do keep still, Marj, for half a minute, can't you?" cried Jessie. "I
suppose you can't," she added, "but you might try, anyway. A great many
impossible things come with time."

"Speak with yourself, Johnette," retorted Marjorie.

"Why the Johnette?" inquired Lucile, with interest.

"Feminine for John, of course," Marjorie explained, patiently.

Jessie broke in upon the laugh that followed. "But we haven't come to the
point yet," she complained. "Speak up, Margaret, before some other rude
person interrupts."

"That's right," said Lucile, ignoring the irony in her tone. "Now is your
chance, Peggy."

"Why, you said that our guardian was a vision," said Margaret, dreamily.
"I quite agree with you."

"Come, come, I can't allow this," cried the vision, gaily, as the girls
turned adoring eyes upon her. "I've been thinking sundry little thoughts
on my own account since I've seen my girls again."

"Oh, doesn't it seem great to be back?" cried Dorothy. "I know I should
be terribly homesick if I stayed away six weeks, let alone six months."

"Indeed it did. Just the same, New York is fascinating, with its great
buildings, its busy, absorbed throng of people, each intent on getting
ahead of the next one. There is something about it all that draws one
irresistibly. The very air seems charged with electricity, and just to
walk down Broadway gave me more real excitement and enjoyment than the
most thrilling play could have done." Helen Wescott's face flushed and
her eyes sparkled as she talked.

"Go on," cried Evelyn breathlessly. "Do tell us all about it. Oh, I can't
even imagine it!"

"I don't believe I could tell you everything if I should talk for a
month," she went on. "But I do remember a conversation Jack and I had
soon after our arrival. We were walking up Fifth Avenue one exceptionally
busy day--I don't know why I should say that, for every day over there
seems busier than the last--when Jack asked why I was so quiet. 'Because
everything else is making so much noise,' I answered. Which, indeed, was
almost reason enough. But when he insisted, I said what had been in my
thoughts for the past two days:

"'I've been wondering, as I looked at all these people