question?–and, even then, your answers didn’t fit.”

It was mid-June, and as happens not unfrequently in the month acknowledging allegiance to both seasons, spring had plunged headlong into summer, with no preparatory gradations from breezy coolness to sultry days and oppressive nights. Friendly Terrace wore an air of relaxation. School was over till September, and now that the bugbear of final examinations was disposed of, no one seemed possessed of sufficient energy to attempt anything more strenuous than wielding a palm-leaf fan.

On Amy Lassell’s front porch a quartet of wilted girls lounged about in attitudes expressive of indolent ease. Tall Priscilla occupied the hammock, and Ruth was ensconced in a willow rocking-chair, with a hassock at her feet. Peggy had made herself comfortable on the top step, with sofa cushions tucked skilfully at the small of her back, and behind her head. Amy herself sat cross-legged like a Turk on the porch floor and fanned vigorously to supplement the efforts of the lazy breeze.

Peggy, pondering her friend’s accusation with languid interest, dimpled into a smile which acknowledged its correctness. “Yes, you’re right, Amy,” she admitted. “And, if you want to know the reason, it’s only that my thoughts were wandering. The fact is, girls, I’m just hankering for the country.”

“Then what’s the matter–”

The suggestion on the tip of Amy’s tongue never got any farther, for Peggy, seemingly certain that it would prove inadequate, shook her head with a vigor hardly to be expected from her general air of lassitude.

“No, Amy! I don’t mean going to the park, or taking a trolley ride out to one of the suburbs. What I want is the sure-enough country, without any sidewalks, you know, and with roads that wind, and old hens clucking around, and cow-bells tinkling off in the pastures, and oceans of room–”

“And sunsets where the sun goes down behind green trees, instead of peoples’ houses,” Ruth interrupted dreamily. “And birds singing like mad to wake you up in the morning.”

“Yes, and berries growing alongside the road, where you can help yourself,” broke in Amy with animation. “And apples and nuts lying around under the trees, and green corn that melts in your mouth, and–”

“Not all at the same time, though.” The correction came from Priscilla’s hammock. “You wouldn’t find many nuts dropping from the trees at this time of the year.”

Before Amy could reply, the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of the most universally popular visitor ever gracing Friendly Terrace by his presence. He came often, without any danger of wearing out his welcome. Every household watched for his arrival, and felt injured if he passed without stopping. On Amy’s porch four necks craned, the better to view his advance, and four pairs of eyes were expectant.

“If there’s anything for me,” observed Peggy hopefully, “mother’ll wave, I know.” But Mrs. Raymond, who sat sewing on her own porch, opened the solitary letter the postman handed her, and proceeded to acquaint herself with its contents in full view of the watchers on the other side of the street.

“This must be Mother’s Day,” Amy exclaimed disapprovingly, when, a moment later, she accepted from the letter-carrier’s hand a fat blue envelope directed to Mrs. Gibson Lassell. But, in spite of her rather resentful tone, she scrambled to her feet, and carried the letter through to the shaded back room where her mother lay on the couch, with a glass of ice-tea beside her, devoting herself to the business of keeping cool.

Some time passed before Amy’s return. Priscilla’s hammock barely stirred and the rhythmic creak of Ruth’s rocking-chair grew gradually less frequent. Peggy, cuddling down among the cushions, let her thoughts stray again to the joys of being without sidewalks, and all that was implied in such a lack. The porch with the silent trio would not have seemed out of place in that enchanted country where the sleeping princess and her subjects dreamed away a hundred years.

All at once there was a rush, a slam, a series of little rapturous squeals. The Amy who had carried the blue envelope indoors, had been mysteriously replaced by a young person so bubbling over with animation as to be unable, apparently, to express herself, except by ecstatic gurgles and a mad capering about the porch.

Had a crisp October breeze all at once dissipated the languors of the June day, the effect on the occupants of the porch could hardly have been more immediate. Priscilla came out of the hammock with a bound. Peggy’s cushions rolled to the bottom of the steps, as Peggy leaped to her feet. And so precipitately did Ruth arise, that her rocking-chair went over backward, and narrowly escaped breaking a front window.

“Amy Lassell!” Peggy seized her friend by the shoulders and gave her a vigorous shake. “Stop acting this crazy way, and tell us what’s happened.”

“Talk of fairy godmothers!” gasped Amy, coherent at last. “Talk of dreams coming true! Oh, girls!”

“What is it?” Three exasperated voices screamed the question, and even Amy began to realize that her explanation had lacked lucidity. She tried again.

“That letter, you know. It’s the strangest coincidence I ever heard of. But haven’t you noticed lots of times–”

“Oh, Amy,” Ruth implored, “do let that part wait, and get to the point.”

“Why, this is the point. That letter was from an old friend of mother’s, Mrs. Leighton. She has a home up in the country, Sweet Fern Cottage I think they call it, or is it Sweet Briar–”

“Sweet chocolate, perhaps,” suggested Priscilla with gentle sarcasm. “One will do as well as another. Go on.”

“It’s the real country, Peggy, for you have to take a four-mile stage ride to get to the railway station. And Mrs. Leighton wanted to know if some of us wouldn’t like to use the cottage, as she is going to Europe this summer. And, right away, mother said it would be so nice for us girls to have it.”

The clamor that broke out made further explanations impossible. It was Amy’s turn to be superior.

“Girls, if you all keep talking at once, how can I ever tell you the rest? The cottage is all furnished, Mrs. Leighton says, and we would only have to bring bedding and towels, and things of that sort. And she says you can buy milk and vegetables very reasonably of the farmers in the neighborhood, so it wouldn’t be expensive when we divided it up among us.”

“We could do the cooking ourselves,” interrupted Peggy.

“Of course. Mrs. Leighton takes up her own servants, but if we found somebody to do our washing, and scrub us up occasionally, we could manage the rest.”

For half an hour the excited planning went on, and then four enthusiastic girls separated to subject the enterprise to the more cautious consideration of fathers and mothers. And that was the end of listlessness on Friendly Terrace for that hot wave, at least. At almost any hour of day, one might see a girl running across the street, or bursting into another girl’s house without warning, in order to set forth some new and brilliant idea which had just popped into her head, or to ask advice on some perplexing point, or to answer the objections somebody had raised. Though only four families on the Terrace were personally interested in the solution of the problem, the whole neighborhood took it up. It was generally agreed that the girls had worked hard in school, and were tired, and a summer in what Peggy called “the sure-enough country”