the sun off, because my parasol is not very big, you know; but I like my new linen one best, because Mother made it. Anything she makes is so much nicer than what she buys in the stores. Seven-year-old things are too large, and sixes are too small; but she always makes things just exactly right; and she doesn't say, 'You don't mean to tell me that child is seven years old!' Mother put a big blue bow on my white parasol to match the one on the hat, and I would so like to show both of them to Aunt Mary. Sometimes, I am almost certain that she is laughing to herself when I tell her that Mother made this or that; and I am sure I can't see why."

"You could, pet, if your memory would carry you back to the days of Mother's first attempts at sewing," laughed the Doctor. "She married young—just after she had finished school. Our parents died when she and I were quite small. Aunt Mary was our big sister, and looked after us and things in general. She thought that Mother had enough to do with her studies and music, so did not try to teach her sewing and other very useful things. Mother should have saved the first little frocks she made for you; and you would see that Aunt Mary has good reason to laugh, not at the pretty things Mother makes now, but at those which they remind her of. So by all means, wear the linen hat. It will be cooler and lighter on your head; and as Aunt Mary will send the wagonette to the station, you will not be exposed to the sun. Liza will take a large parasol to shade both of you while you are driving to the ferry."

Mary was glad when the warm, dusty ride on the train came to an end.

"There is the wagonette, Liza, and Aunt Mary has let all the girls who are staying at the convent for vacation come to meet us. Oh, I don't see how they can stay away from their fathers and mothers like that!"

"I reckon dey has to, honey. 'Tain't ebery li'l gal has a home lak yo' has. Dey cud be in a lots wuss place dan May-reevale, whar dey has de Sistahs tekin' keer ob dem an' plenty ob room fo' to play outdoahs an' all sech lak."

The little girl was warmly greeted by her friends.

"Guess the grand s'prise I had this morning," she said as she and Liza took their places in the wagonette.

"Why, your beautiful new doll, of course," cried the children, gazing with longing eyes at Annette, whom Mary had brought with her.

"Oh, no, not Annette. Uncle brought her to me yesterday. Would you like to hold her, Effie? The s'prise I mean is a million times grander."

"A—a pony!" ventured one little girl, thinking wistfully of her own pet in distant Texas.

"A big box of candy!" cried five-year-old Effie.

"Give us a little hint, Mary. Every time you come out here you have just had some grand surprise, so I should think there could not be much left to surprise you with," declared Dora, one of the older children, who sat beside our little girl.

"Yes, Dora, I think we are a very s'prising family. Father and Uncle are always doing something to s'prise Mother and me, and then we think up something for them. But this one—well, I know you can never, never guess it, so I shall tell you. I have the two dearest, darlingest, baby sisters in the whole world!"

"Twins! Oh, what are their names?" was the eager chorus.

"Roberta after Father, and Elizabeth after Mother; but we shall call them Berta and Beth until they grow up. Oh, I'm so happy!"

"You are!" said a pouty-looking little girl. "Dear, me! I should think you would ever so much rather be an only child."

Mary looked puzzled.

"Rather be an only child!" she echoed. "Why, Lucille, are you an only child?"

"Indeed I am not! I have three brothers and two sisters."

"How lovely! I have two little brothers in heaven, and I have been so lonely without them. But now, I shall never be lonely again. Anyone who knows how it feels to be an only child, would never like to be one."

"I would be willing to take the risk. I'm sick and tired of having to share everything I get with the whole family. Oh, you needn't look like that, Mary! You always have everything you wish for—whole carloads of it,—and I must say you are generous with your things. Before I would let a baby like Effie hold such a beautiful doll! But you can afford to be generous when you know that your father or mother or that grand uncle of yours will give you something better."

"But—but, Lucille," the look of wonder on Mary's face deepened, "you don't really mean that you would rather have all the toys and candy and everything all by yourself than have brothers and sisters to share them with? Oh, I am sure you can't mean that!"

"You will know what I mean well enough three or four years from now when those little sisters of yours cry for everything nice you have. But, no, you won't know! As I say, for everything you give away, you will get something better."

"As if Mary thinks of such a thing!" said Dora, hotly, putting her arm about the little girl. "You wouldn't be happy unless you were dividing up with someone; would you, Mary?"

Mary flashed her a grateful smile.

"I think that is why I have been so lonely sometimes, Dora. There is not much fun playing with dolls all by myself; for no matter how hard I pretend that they hear what I say, I know all the time that they don't. But my little sisters will hear me, and pretty soon they will be able to talk and play with me."

Then the wagonette turned in at the convent gates and rolled up the wide driveway to the front steps.

"Now, Miss May-ree, yo' go 'long in an' see yo' Aunt May-ree an' de Sistahs, an' I'se gwine obah yondah undah dat big tree an' wait fo' yo'."

"But won't you come in, too, Liza? Aunt Mary and the Sisters will be glad to see you, I know."

"I'll see dem byme-by, honey."

Mary ran up the broad, high steps and in at the open doorway, intending to surprise her aunt; but Sister Madeline had heard the wagonette approaching, and was waiting to greet the little girl.

"What a pretty hat! Has Uncle Frank been making you a present?"

"He brought me this lovely doll yesterday, Aunt Mary, but not the hat. Mother made that," and though the child looked closely at her aunt, she could see no twinkle in the dark eyes.

Had that little bird of which Aunt Mandy had so often spoken, been hopping about on the window sill at luncheon time, and could it be possible that it had flown out to Maryvale to chirp a warning note close to Sister Madeline's ear?

"Let me take your hat and parasol. You have your hands full with that beautiful dollie. We shall go to the east parlor, for it is the coolest spot in the house on a warm day."

"I just brought Annette with me to show her to you before I pack her away. I don't care so much about dolls now that I have some really, truly, live babies to play with. O Aunt Mary! I do wish that we could have brought them, too. They are just too sweet for anything!" Mary looked around to be sure that no one was near, then whispered, "They are not very pretty,—Annette, this doll, is ever so much prettier,—but they are darling, anyway. Aunt Mandy thinks they are beautiful babies, but—but they squeeze their faces all up and cry. Uncle says that they will improve with age; but I don't want them to grow old—I want them to stay little even if they are ug—not very pretty."

"But don't you intend to play with your dollies any more? You spoke of putting them away."

"Dolls! Indeed, no, Aunt Mary! Not when I have two little sisters to play with. I am going to wash and iron all my doll clothes, and dress every doll in her best things, and put them all away in my toy box. Then, I shall close the big doors of my doll house; and the very minute that Berta and Beth are big enough to play, everything will be ready for them. The only things that worry me are Snowball and Snowdrop and Snowflake."

"Dear, dear! What lovely cool names for warm weather! But why should you worry about your