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“Three hundred and seven dollars, ladies, and thirty-five cents, with old lady Baker still to hear from, and eight dollars to pay for the lights.”

“WHAT!” said the three women together. Theodore repeated the sum.

“Nonsense!” cried Rosemary. “It CAN’T be so much.”

Mrs. Bancroft stared dazedly.

“TWO hundred, Ted…?” she suggested.

“Three hundred!” the boy repeated firmly, beaming sympathetically as both the young women threw themselves upon Mrs. Bancroft, and smothered her in ecstatic embraces.

“Oh, Aunt Nell,” said Ann, almost tearfully, “I don’t know what the girls will SAY. Why, Rose, it’ll all but clear the ward. It’s three times what we thought!”

“Your father will be pleased,” said Mrs. Bancroft, winking a little suspiciously. “He’s worried so about you girlies assuming that debt. I must go tell him.” She began to gather her letters together. “Do you know where he is, Ted? Has he come in from his first round?” she asked.

“She’s the dearest…!” said Ann, when the door closed behind her. “There’s nobody quite like your mother.”

“Honestly there isn’t,” assented Rosemary, thoughtfully. “When you think how unspoiled she is–with that heavenly voice of hers, you know, and every one so devoted to her. She doesn’t do a THING, whether it’s arranging flowers, or apron patterns, or managing the maids, that people don’t admire and copy.”

“She can’t wait now to tell father the news,” commented Theodore, smiling.

“He’ll be perfectly enchanted,” said Rosemary. “He sent her violets last night, and this morning, when we were taking all her flowers out of the bathtub, and looking at the cards, she gave me such a funny little grin and said, ‘I’ll thank the gentleman for these myself, Rose!’ Ted and I roared at her.”

“But that was dear,” said Ann, romantically.

“She simply does what she likes with Dad,” said Ted, ruminatively. Rosemary, facing the others over the back of her chair, nodded. Ann had her arms about her knees. They were all idle.

“She got Dad to give me my horse,” the boy went on, “and she’ll get him to let us go off to the Greers’ next month–you’ll see! I can’t think how she does it.”

“I can remember the first day she came here,” said Rosemary. She rested her chin in her hands; her eyes were dreamy.

“George! We were the scared, miserable little rats!” supplemented Theodore. Rosemary smiled pitifully, as if the mother asleep in her could feel for the children of that long-passed day.

“I was only six,” she said, “and when we heard the wheels we ran–“

“That’s right! We ran upstairs,” agreed her brother.

“Yes. And she followed us. I can remember the rustling of her dress…. And she had roses on–she pinned one on Bess’s little black frock. And she carried me down to dinner in her arms, and I sat in her lap.”

“And that year you had a party,” said Ann. “I remember that, for I came. And the playhouse was built for Bess’s birthday.”

“So it was,” said Rosemary, struck afresh. “That was all her doing, too. She just has to want a thing, and it gets done! I’ll never forget Bess’s wedding.”

“Nor I,” said Ann. “It was the most perfect little wedding I ever saw. Not a hitch anywhere. And wasn’t the house a bower? I never had so much fun at any wedding in my life. Bess was so fresh and gay, and she and George helped us until the very last minute–do you remember?–gathering the roses and wrapping the cake. It was all ideal!”

“Bess told me the other day,” said Rosemary, soberly, and in a lowered tone, “that on her wedding-day, when she was dressed, you know, mamma put on her veil, and pinned on the orange blossoms, and kissed her. And Bess saw the tears in her eyes. And mamma laughed, and put her arm about her and said: ‘It is silly and wrong of me, dearest, but I was thinking who might have been doing this for you to-day–of how proud she would have been!’ Then they came down, and Bess was married.”