Indoors the cottage lived up to the promise of its exterior. The front door opened into a big living-room furnished comfortably, though simply, and with a large brick fireplace at one end. Beyond this were the dining-room and kitchen, with store-room and pantry, and a long woodshed running off to one side. The second floor consisted of a number of small bedrooms, each with just enough in the way of furnishings to provide for the comfort of the occupants, without adding to housekeeping cares. From this story a staircase of ladder-like steepness, led up to an unfinished garret, empty, except for a few pieces of dilapidated furniture and sundry piles of magazines and paper-covered books, which had undoubtedly contributed to the entertainment of the cottagers in past seasons.

Thanks to an early start, it was little past noon when the arrivals from Friendly Terrace took possession. Luncheon was first in order. The dust of the winter having been removed from the dining-table, various alluring pasteboard boxes were placed upon it, and seven hungry people ranged themselves in expectant rows. The piles of sandwiches melted away as if by magic, and as they disappeared, the rooms silent for so long, echoed to the whole-hearted laughter which is the best of all aids to digestion.

The meal over, the trunks were ransacked for old dresses, gingham aprons, and sweeping caps, and under Peggy’s leadership, the girls fell to work.

“Now we’ll divide up, so as not to get in each other’s way. Priscilla, suppose you and Claire take the up-stairs rooms. Ruth and I will start here in the living-room, and Amy–where is Amy, anyway?”

Amy’s sudden appearance in the doorway was the signal for a general shriek of protest. The evening before, her father had presented her with a kodak, which she now pointed toward the group of girls in their house-maid’s uniforms, with the air of a hold-up man, demanding one’s money or one’s life.

“Oh, don’t please,” cried Claire, cowering and hiding her face. She wore her gingham apron with an unaccustomed air, and had looked askance at the sweeping cap, before she had followed the example of the other girls, and pulled it over her soft, brown hair. “Please don’t take my picture,” she implored in a doleful whimper. “I look like such a fright.”

“Oh, do stand in a row with your brooms and mops over your shoulders,” pleaded Amy. “You look perfectly dear–and so picturesque.”

Peggy perceived that Claire’s consternation was real, and sternly checked her friend. “Amy Lassell, put that camera away, and get to work. It will be time enough to take pictures when this house is fit to sleep in.”

By four o’clock at least a superficial order had been secured. The fresh breezes blowing from the windows on all sides, had aided the efforts of the girl housekeepers in banishing dust and mustiness, and they were ready to wait another day for the luxury of clean windows. By this time, too, most of the girls were frankly sleepy, for the prospect of an early start had interfered seriously with the night’s rest of some of them, and the freshly aired, newly made beds presented an irresistible temptation.

The indefatigable Peggy however, emerging from the wash-bowl as glowing as a rose, scorned the suggestion of a nap. “Couldn’t think of wasting this gorgeous afternoon that way. I’m going over to the farmhouse Mrs. Leighton spoke of, and make arrangements about eggs, butter, milk, and all that sort of thing.”

“And fresh vegetables too,” exclaimed Amy with surprising animation, considering that she was in the middle of a tremendous yawn.

“Yes, of course. And girls, if the farmer’s wife will make our bread, I think it will be lots more sensible to buy it of her, than to bother with baking.”

“Oh, you fix things up just as you think best,” exclaimed Priscilla. “The rest of us will stand by whatever you agree to.” A drowsy murmur of corroboration went the rounds, and Peggy, making open mock of them all for a company of “sleepy-heads,” went blithely on her way toward the particular column of smoke which she felt sure was issuing from the chimney of the Cole farmhouse.

A very comfortable, pleasant farmhouse it was, though quite eclipsed by the big red barn which loomed up in the background. Something in the appearance of the front door suggested to Peggy that it was not intended for daily use, and she made her way around to the side and knocked. A child not far from Dorothy’s age, with straight black hair, and elfish eyes, opened the door, looked her over, and shrieked a staccato summons.

“Ro-set-ta! Ro-set-ta Muriel!”

“Well, what do you want?” demanded a rather querulous voice, and at the end of the hall appeared the figure of a slender girl, her abundant yellow hair brought down over her forehead to the eyebrows, and tied in place by a blue ribbon looped up at one side in a flaunting bow. Her frock of cheap blue silk was made in the extreme of the mode, and as she rustled forward, Peggy found herself thinking that she was as unlike as possible to her preconceived ideas of a farmer’s daughter. As for Rosetta Muriel, she looked Peggy over with the unspoken thought, “Well, I’d like to know if she calls them city styles.”

Peggy, in a two-year-old gingham, quite unaware that her appearance was disappointing, cheerfully explained her errand and was invited to walk in. Mrs. Cole, a stout, motherly woman, readily agreed to supply the party at the cottage with the necessary provisions, including bread, twice a week. And having dispatched the business which concerned the crowd, Peggy broached a little private enterprise of her own.

“Mrs. Cole, I thought I’d like to try my luck at raising some chickens this summer. Just in a very small way, of course,” she added, reading doubt in the eyes of the farmer’s wife. “If you’ll sell me an old hen and a setting of eggs, that will be enough for the first season.”

“’Tisn’t an extry good time, you know,” said Mrs. Cole. “Pretty near July. But, if you’d like to try it, I daresay we’ve got some hens that want to set.”

“The old yellow hen’s a-settin’,” exclaimed the little girl who had listened with greedy interest to every word of the conversation. Rosetta Muriel looked wearily out of the window, as if she found herself bored by the choice of topics.

“Yes, seems to me I did hear your pa say something about the old yellow wanting to set, and him trying to break it up.”

“He drove her out of the woodshed three times yesterday,” said the little girl. “And Joe tried to throw water on her, but she flew off a-squawking and Joe splashed the water over himself.” She broke into a delighted giggle at the recollection of Joe’s discomfiture, and Peggy smiled in sympathy with her evident enjoyment. Peggy’s heart was tender to all children, and this small, communicative creature was so nearly Dorothy’s size as to appeal to her especially.

“I think you are about the age of my little niece,” said Peggy in her usual friendly fashion. “You must come to play with her some day. You see, she is the only little girl among a lot of big ones, and she might get lonely.”

“I’ll come along with you this afternoon,” said the child readily, whereat Rosetta Muriel uttered a horrified gasp, and her mother hastily interposed.

“Annie Cole! You won’t do any such thing. Folks that snap up invitations like a chicken does a grasshopper, ain’t going to be asked out very often.”

It was arranged that Peggy should carry home a basket of provisions for the evening meal, and that Joe should