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“No, of course you are not Cousin Abner’s girls,” she said sorrowfully. “I’d have known you couldn’t be if I had just stopped to think. Because you are dark and they would be fair, of course; Cousin Abner and his wife were both fair. But when I saw you coming down the lane–I was peeking through the hall window upstairs, you know, I and Juliana–I was sure you were Helen and Beatrice at last. And I can’t help wishing you were!”

“I wish we were, too, since you expected them,” said Mary, smiling. “But–“

“Oh, I wasn’t really expecting them,” broke in the little lady. “Only I am always hoping that they will come. They never have yet, but Trenton isn’t so very far away, and it is so lonely here. I just long for company–I and Juliana–and I thought I was going to have it today. Cousin Abner came to see me once since I moved here and he said the girls would come, too, but that was six months ago and they haven’t come yet. But perhaps they will soon. It is always something to look forward to, you know.”

She talked in a sweet, chirpy voice like a bird’s. There were pathetic notes in it, too, as the girls instinctively felt. How very quaint and sweet and unworldly she was! Mary found herself feeling indignant at Cousin Abner’s girls, whoever they were, for their neglect.

“We are out for a spin on our wheels,” said Ida, “and we are very thirsty. We thought perhaps you would be kind enough to give us a drink of water.”

“Oh, my dear, anything–anything I have is at your service,” said the little lady delightedly. “If you will come in, I will get you some lemonade.”

“I am afraid it is too much trouble,” began Mary.

“Oh, no, no,” cried the little lady. “It is a pleasure. I love doing things for people, I wish more of them would come to give me the chance. I never have any company, and I do so long for it. It’s very lonesome here at Golden Gate. Oh, if you would only stay to tea with me, it would make me so happy. I am all prepared. I prepare every Saturday morning, in particular, so that if Cousin Abner’s girls did come, I would be all ready. And when nobody comes, Juliana and I have to eat everything up ourselves. And that is bad for us–it gives Juliana indigestion. If you would only stay!”

“We will,” agreed Ida promptly. “And we’re glad of the chance. We are both terribly hungry, and it is very good of you to ask us.”

“Oh, indeed, it isn’t! It’s just selfishness in me, that’s what it is, pure selfishness! I want company so much. Come in, my dears, and I suppose I must introduce myself because you don’t know me, do you now? I’m Miss Sally Temple, and this is Golden Gate Cottage. Dear me, this is something like living. You are special providences, that you are, indeed!”

She whisked them through a quaint little parlour, where everything was as dainty and neat and old-fashioned as herself, and into a spare bedroom beyond it, to put off their hats.

“Now, just excuse me a minute while I run out and tell Juliana that we are going to have company to tea. She will be so glad, Juliana will. Make yourselves at home, my dears.”

“Isn’t she delicious?” said Mary, when Miss Sally had tripped out. “I’d like to shake Cousin Abner’s girls. This is what Dot Halliday would call an adventure, Ida.”

“Isn’t it! Miss Sally and this quaint old spot both seem like a chapter out of the novels our grandmothers cried over. Look here, Mary, she is lonely and our visit seems like a treat to her. Let us try to make it one. Let’s just chum with her and tell her all about ourselves and our amusements and our dresses. That sounds frivolous, but you know what I mean. She’ll like it. Let’s be company in real earnest for her.”