He had heard his mother say to his Aunt Louise: “Why, you could turn the hose on it to clean it, couldn’t you?”

The idea had inflamed his imagination and he determined to see how it would work. Detaching the hose and spray from the bath-room he trotted off immediately after breakfast, intent on putting into effect his mother’s idea. It seemed to him that it would be a delight to live in a house where one might enter into the kitchen at any moment and find the cook spraying the walls with a hose. If the reality proved to be as charming as the anticipation, he was going to beg his mother to have their own kitchen made over promptly.

The workmen were all upstairs at Sweetbrier Lodge but the lower doors were open so that there was no difficulty in achieving an entrance. He knew how to attach the spray to the faucet and a twist of the fingers turned on the water.

It seemed to him as the first dash struck him full in the face, he having been a little careless about the nozzle, that his Aunt Louise need not have worried about the pressure of the town water. He shook his head like a pussy cat in the rain, but manfully restrained the ejaculation that leaped to his lips. He was glad that he did, because nobody interrupted and the succeeding moments were filled with ecstasy. He sprayed the floor, the electric range, the shiny white table, the glistening cupboards, and, best of all, the gleaming tiles of the walls down which the drops chased each other in a joyous race for the floor.

The moments sped in this entrancing pursuit.

At home a cry for Dicky had arisen as the time came to dress him for his trip to New York. Nobody knew where he had gone. It was not until Ethel Brown telephoned to Dorothy that they learned that he had been seen passing her house.

“He must have gone to Sweetbrier Lodge for some reason or other,” said Ethel Brown. “What on earth possessed him on this morning of all mornings!”

She called to Roger, and he dashed off on the run to see if he could find his wandering brother. None of the workmen at the new house had any knowledge of his whereabouts, and it was not until Roger opened one of the carefully closed doors and was greeted by a dash of water, straight in his waistcoat, that he found the wanderer.

Roger was a boy of even temper but he confessed to his mother afterwards that his fingers ached as never before to impress on Dicky his disapproval of his occupation.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he demanded, snatching the hose from Dicky’s reluctant fingers, and turning off the water.

“Washing down the walls,” replied Dicky truthfully.

“Incidentally you’ve given yourself a good soaking,” said Roger, looking at the thoroughly drenched little figure before him. “Here, slip into this coat, and I hope I haven’t got to carry you home the whole way, you big, heavy creature.”

“I think I’d be warmer if I trotted myself,” suggested Dicky, a little apprehensive of what might happen to him in the way of a bear hug, in his brother’s strong arms.

“I guess you’re right,” said Roger. “We’ll have to run like deer, for it’s almost time for the car to come for us. This puts an end to your going into town, I suppose you understand, young man.”

Dicky had not thought of losing his other joy while he was realizing his first delight, and he puckered his face for a howl, but before the sound could come out, Roger said: “You brought it on to yourself, so don’t yell. This is the natural result of what you’ve been doing. You can’t expect ten people to wait for you to be thoroughly dried and got ready to go into town, can you?”

Dicky was an uncommonly reasonable child and he swallowed his sobs as he shook his head. There was no farther conversation, for both boys were running as fast as Roger’s legs could set the pace. Dicky’s strides were assisted by his brother, who seized his arm and helped him over the ground with giant steps.

Mrs. Morton’s view of the situation seemed to be painfully like Roger’s, and Dicky found himself put into the care of Mary and an unnaturally rough bath towel, his only part in the expedition that had promised such happiness to him, being the sight of his relatives climbing into his grandfather’s automobile and dashing off toward Glen Point, where they were to pick up Miss Graham and the Hancocks.

When the party reached New York they made up their minds that they might as well approach the Museum containing many beautiful objects by the prettiest way possible, so at 59th Street the car swept into Central Park. As they entered, Miss Graham called their attention to the golden statue of General Sherman, made by the famous sculptor, Saint-Gaudens. As they neared the Museum, she pointed out Cleopatra’s needle, an Egyptian shaft covered with hieroglyphics.

“The poor old stone has had a hard time in this climate,” said Roger. “It has scaled off terribly, hasn’t it?”

“They are trying to preserve it by a preparation of parafine,” said Miss Graham.

“I should think it would have to be repeated every winter,” said Helen. “It doesn’t seem as if parafine was much of a protection against heavy frost.”

Just inside the entrance of the building they found Della and Tom awaiting them. Miss Graham called their attention first to the tapestries hanging in the entrance hall, and told them something of the patient work that went into the production of one of these great sheets of painstaking embroidery.

“Are they making them anywhere, nowadays?” asked Ethel Blue.

“When the war is over and you go to Paris, you can see the tapestry workers in the Gobelins factory,” said Miss Daisy. “Every machine has hung upon it the picture which the worker is copying. It may take a man six or seven years to complete one piece.”

“Shouldn’t you think he would be sick to death of it!” exclaimed Dorothy.

“I suppose the first year he tells himself he must be pleasant, so that he will see the picture get started. In the second year perhaps he’ll be ready to put in the feet of his figures. Then all the middle years must be comparatively exciting because he’s doing the central part of the picture; and the last year he has a sort of a thrill because it’s almost done, even though the work may be all in the clouds.”

“I judge that they make landscapes with figures, chiefly,” guessed James.

“Many of them are landscapes with figures,” replied Miss Daisy. “They have a wide variety of objects. The factory belongs to the government and the pieces are used as decorations for government buildings, and as gifts to people of other countries. The French Government gave Miss Alice Roosevelt a piece of Gobelin when she was married. I’ve seen it on exhibition in the Art Museum at Cincinnati.”

“I suppose all the workmen now have gone to the war, and the factory is closed,” said Tom.

“Probably. The men who work there now are descendants, sometimes in the third or fourth generation, of the early workers. They hold their positions for life and although their pay is not large they also have each a cottage and piece of land on the grounds of the factory.”

As the U. S. C. ascended the great stair-way they passed numerous impressive busts and stopped to look at all of them. Most of the men were famous Americans, whose names were already familiar to the young people.

“Now,” said Miss Graham, as they reached the head of the stairs, “later on we can choose the kind of thing we would like especially to see, but first I want to show you two or three pictures and we can talk a little about them. Then perhaps we will enjoy better the pictures we see afterwards.”

“I am sure we shall,” answered Roger, politely, although his heart was yearning for the Riggs collection of armor.

Miss Daisy read his mind.

“I know you want to see the Riggs armor most of all,” she said, “and Margaret and James have been talking a lot about the Morgan collection and the Ethels told me on the way in that they had seen in the Sunday papers reproductions of some of the pictures in the Altman collections and they want to see the originals. We can see all those later on, but first we will look for a minute at a very famous picture by a Frenchwoman, Rosa Bonheur.”

“Oh, I remember about her,” said Helen. “She used to wear men’s clothes when she was working in her studio. She said skirts bothered her.”

“I should think they would,” said James. “I remember about her, too. She made a specialty of animals and sometimes she had lions and other wild animals from some Zoo, and let them wander about. She needed to be dressed so she could skip lively if they made any demonstration!”

“Those are huge horses, aren’t they,” said Ethel Blue, as they stood before the “Horse Fair.”

“They look as if they were ‘feeling gayly,’ as the North Carolina mountaineers say,” quoted Dorothy.

“What is it all about?” asked Miss Graham.

“Why, I don’t know,” answered Ethel Blue slowly. “Is it about anything in particular? Isn’t it just a lot of horses being taken to a Horse Fair for exhibition?”

Miss Graham nodded and said that that was probably all there was to it. Then she led them to a picture by a French artist, Meissonier.

“I spot Napoleon,” said Tom promptly, as they took up their position.

“This is called ‘Friedland, 1807,’” said Miss Graham.

Before she could ask any question or make any suggestion about the picture, Helen had explained “Friedland.”

“That was one of Napoleon’s famous battles. Here he defeated the Russians and Prussians.”

“Eighteen hundred and seven?” repeated James. “Why, Napoleon was at the very height of his power then, wasn’t he?”

“He looks it,” said Margaret. “Doesn’t he look as if he were the lord of the world? And how those men around him gaze at him with adoration! He certainly had a wonderful ability for making himself beloved by his soldiers!”

Miss Graham had been listening to these comments with the greatest interest.

“What difference do you see between this picture and the ‘Horse Fair’?” she asked.

They looked carefully at the picture before them and Ethel Blue scampered back to refresh her memory on the “Horse Fair.”

“There isn’t any more action in one than the other,” said James, “though, of course, it’s different.”

“But this one makes me think a lot about a great man,” added his sister.

“And you want to know what it’s all about,” exclaimed Ethel Brown.

“You feel as if there must be some story about this one,” said Ethel Blue, returning from her expedition to the “Horse Fair.”

“That’s just the point,” said Miss Graham, patting her shoulder, “There’s no especial appeal to the imagination in the ‘Horse Fair.’ You just see horses going to any horse fair in northern France, and there’s nothing to tell you that one horse has won a ploughing match and that another is a candidate for a blue ribbon because of his great weight. But here you realize at once that Napoleon was a man to command attention. You want to know what he has been doing. You feel that there is some good reason for the evident admiration of his soldiers. Those two pictures are examples of two different classes of pictures. The ‘Horse Fair’ you might call a sketch in a traveller’s note book. The Napoleon picture is an illustration in a story.”

The young people thought over all this and nodded their agreement.

“Now come with me and see this picture of a pretty girl.”

Miss Graham led the way to the Morgan collection and they looked into the winning face of “Miss Farren.” She seemed to be moving swiftly across the canvas, her dress and cloak streaming behind her from the speed of her motion.

“She’s a pretty girl,” said Roger, with his hand on his heart. Tom nodded in agreement, but James shook his head.

“She looks silly,” he said sternly.

“There isn’t any story to her picture, I’m sure,” said Helen. “That’s just a portrait.”

“But may not a portrait indicate something of the character of the sitter?” asked Miss Graham.

“It ought to,” returned Margaret, “and I should think there was something of this girl’s character in the portrait, but there’s nothing to show that this might be the illustration of a story.”

“Unless it were the frontispiece, showing the picture of the heroine,” said Roger.

“But the heroine doing nothing that is told about in the story,” insisted Helen.

Miss Graham made no comment on these criticisms but led the way to another picture, also of a girl, but this time of a girl in the dress of a peasant and not handsomely arrayed as was Miss Farren.

“There is a bigger difference than clothes between these two,” said Della, “but I don’t know just what it is. This girl isn’t pretty like Miss Farren.”

“Do you know who this is?” asked Miss Daisy.

“Somebody who is thinking a lot,” said Ethel Brown.

“She is seeing things in her mind,” said Ethel Blue.

“Who is the most famous girl in history, who did that?” asked Miss Graham.

“Jeanne d’Arc,” said Helen. “She saw visions that inspired her to be a leader of men in the army and she brought about the coronation of her king when he was kept from his throne by the English who held Paris and a large part of France.”

“She is seeing visions now,” whispered Ethel Blue, clinging to Miss Graham’s arm.

Miss Graham gently smoothed the fingers that were tensely closed over the sleeve of her jacket.

“Why do you suppose Helen told us about Jeanne d’Arc just now?” she asked.

“Because Helen just naturally knows all the history there is to be known,” said Roger, joking his sister in brotherly fashion.

Helen flushed and murmured something that sounded like, “I thought you’d like to know why she looked like that.”

“There is something more than just her character and her disposition in that picture,” said Margaret.

“If a single picture can be a story picture, I should think this was a story picture as much as the Napoleon one,” said Tom.

Again Miss Daisy nodded her approval.

“I call it a story picture,” she said. “Helen felt that it was, immediately, and that is why she told us something of the story of Jeanne d’Arc.”

“Most landscapes must be just note book pictures, then,” guessed Ethel Brown.

“Unless the landscape should be a background for some story,” said Della. “There might be gypsies kidnapping a child, for instance.”

“Of course there are other divisions,” said Miss Graham, “but roughly speaking, almost every picture is either a record of fact or of imagination, or else it tells a story.”

“It’s going to be interesting to think about that, when we look at the other pictures we shall see later on,” said Tom, and even Roger nodded assent, although his heart was still set upon the armor.

“Now, let’s go back for a moment to look at the ‘Horse Fair,’” said Miss Graham. “What do you think a picture ought to have in it to be a real picture?” she asked as they went along the gallery.

“It seems to me that a picture that is nothing but a record, as you said a few minutes ago, can’t be much of a picture,” said Roger. “I should want something more in a picture, something that would stir me up. Why, even Miss Farren’s there isn’t exactly a record, because you have something more than just eyes and nose and hair. She looks as if she would be fun to talk to, and as for the ‘Horse Fair,’ which was the other picture that we decided was a record, why that has in it more than just a lot of horses.”

“If Rosa Bonheur had wanted merely to draw some horses, she might have strung them along in a row so that we could get an idea of their size and color and could make a guess at their weight, but here we see them in action and we know that they are in good spirits and we feel some sympathy with the men who have a hard time to hold them.”

“Yes, that picture stirs me a little, too.”

“That is because both ‘Miss Farren’ and the ‘Horse Fair’ are real pictures. Any picture that tries to be more than merely a photographic reproduction must stir your emotions in one way or another,” said Miss Daisy. “Now as we look at this picture, do you think the artist put into it everything that she saw on the road that morning when she passed this group of men and horses?”

“I dare say not,” said Della, “because there would be likely to be dogs and boys with the men, and perhaps some ugly houses in the background.”

“Why do you suppose she didn’t put everything in?”

“Why, a picture ought to try to be beautiful, oughtn’t it, and some of those things might be ugly, or there might be so many of them that it would be confusing.”

“Those are both good reasons,” said Miss Daisy. “They both show that the artist has to select the things that he thinks will be of the greatest interest to the people who look at his pictures.”

“Now when he has picked them out, what should you say the next step was?”

They were all rather blank at this question but after a while Roger said slowly, “Evidently she picked out just so many as being the best looking ones to put in the picture; and she didn’t like them all facing the audience, ready to bob their heads at you as you look at them; she made them trot along the road in a natural way.”

“Certainly,” approved Miss Graham. “She arranged what she had selected so that they would be natural and—”

“And so that the colors would show well?” asked Ethel Brown.

“Yes, so that there would be contrasts of color that would be pleasing to the eye. Then there should be balance. Have you any idea what that means?”

Nobody had.

“I wonder if you haven’t all noticed a Japanese print that Margaret has?”

“You mean the one with big green leaves up in one corner and the grasshopper clinging to a tendril?” asked Helen.

“That’s the one,” returned Miss Daisy. “Did it ever occur to you that those leaves were all crowded off into one corner of the picture?”

“I never thought of it,” said Margaret, “and I have looked at it every day for a year. They are, aren’t they?”

“But it didn’t affect you unpleasantly, did it?”

“Why, no. I think it’s a pretty picture,” said Ethel Brown.

“It is,” agreed Miss Graham; “but what device did the artist use to make you feel comfortable about it, and to make you forget that he had put a bunch of foliage up in one corner and had left more than one-half of his sheet blank?”

Nobody could answer this question and Miss Graham had to give the explanation herself.

“It’s all a question of balance,” she said. “The great mass of white paper in the lower right hand part of the picture balances the mass of green leaves in the upper left hand corner. The green is a heavier looking color than the white, and it therefore takes a larger amount of white to balance the green. The Japanese who made this painting understood that, and he has so arranged his leaves and his grasshopper, that the eye is entirely pleased by the balance that results. If Rosa Bonheur has managed wisely there should be masses of light and dark, balancing each other, and there should be spaces and solids, balancing each other.”

“Has she done it? It doesn’t worry me any,” said Roger. “I think she must have succeeded.”

Keeping Miss Graham’s explanation in mind they took another look at the Napoleon picture and concluded that Meissonier also knew what he was about.

“‘Composition’ means the putting together of a picture, doesn’t it?” asked Helen. “I should think that the composition of a picture that has so many figures, must be extremely difficult.”

“Far more difficult, of course, than one for which the artist has selected fewer objects.”

“And of two artists producing complicated pictures like these, he is the better who gives an effect of simplicity.”

“Suppose that Rosa Bonheur had noticed that one of the men struggling with the horses had his face bound up with a cloth; does that have anything to do with the picture?”

They all agreed that it had not.

“Then she was perfectly right to leave out any object that would distract the observer’s mind. She put into this picture of horses going to the horse fair only such things as would make the onlooker think of the beauty and spirit of the horses as shown by their handsome coats and by the difficulty which the men had in controlling them, and his imagination would be stirred to wonder as to which of these fine animals was to win a prize. Everything which might compete with these simple ideas the artist left out of the picture.”

“It must have been awfully hard to do such a lot of legs,” said Ethel Blue, who knew a little about drawing.

“An artist has to know a good deal about anatomy,” returned Miss Graham. “He must know how the human body is made, and the horse’s body, too, if he is to do a picture like this, and he even must know something about the under-structure of the earth. He must make the lines of those legs all move harmoniously. Look at this Napoleon picture once more.”

Once again they stood before “Friedland.”

“If you were to prolong the up-standing lines of weapons and helmets you would find that they were parallel or tended toward some point possibly outside of the picture. Unless an appearance of confusion is desired it would not do to have lines leading in every direction.”

“It would make a picture look every which way, wouldn’t it?” said Ethel Blue.

“Attention to such points as this helps to give expression to the whole picture,” went on Miss Daisy. “Not only do the figures in the pictures have their own expression, but the picture as a whole may wear an expression of peace, like that quiet landscape over there; or of confusion, like this picture of the attempted assassination of a pope, or of orderly excitement, like that cavalry charge yonder.”

As they turned from one canvas to another the Club realized the truth of what Miss Graham was saying.

“That is a fact, isn’t it?” agreed Tom. “You don’t have to see the look on the fellows’ faces to get the general effect of the picture even from a distance.”

“We’ve been talking so much about color schemes in connection with Dorothy’s new house, that I am sure the phrase is familiar to you,” said Miss Graham. “Look at the color schemes of these pictures around us. Do you see that there are no discords because a color note is struck and all of the other shades and colors harmonize with it? That battle rush, for instance, is a study in red. Compare that with the dull misty blues, greens, and greys in LePage’s ‘Jeanne d’Arc.’”

They went from one picture to another and proved the truth of this statement to their satisfaction.

“Now we’ll call our lesson done,” said Miss Graham. “We’ll have some luncheon downstairs and when we come up we can let Roger have his heart’s desire, and we’ll give the afternoon to looking at the Morgan and Altman and Riggs collections of wonders. I doubt if there was ever gathered together anywhere three such groups. The Altman pictures are choice, the Riggs armor is unequalled anywhere in the world, and the Morgan collection is the finest general collection ever owned by a private individual.”

It was a weary but a happy party that returned to Rosemont in the late afternoon.

“One of these days is awfully hard on your head,” confessed Roger, as he was talking to his mother about the Club’s experience, “but it certainly is good for your gray matter.”

“We’re going to remember whenever we look at pictures again,” said Ethel Brown.

“And there are lots of things in it that we shall think about when we look over the decorating in our house,” insisted Dorothy.

“What I thought was the nicest of all was the way Miss Graham taught us. It was just like talking. I think she is awfully nice,” was Ethel Blue’s decision.

CHAPTER XV
PREPARATIONS FOR THE HOUSEWARMING

The trip to the Metropolitan Museum gave every member of the party a new set of words for her vocabulary. They looked at pictures with opened eyes and talked of their “composition” and “balance.” They were all of them more or less interested in photography and now they tried to take photographs that would be real pictures.

“It isn’t so easy to make a picture by selecting what you want to have and leaving out the things you don’t want,” said Roger to Helen one morning as they walked toward Sweetbrier Lodge, “when the things are right there in the landscape and won’t get out of the camera’s way. A painter would leave out that stupid old wooden house in the field there, but he’d leave in the splendid elm bending over it. Now if I ‘shoot’ the elm I’ve got to ‘shoot’ the house, too.”

“The only way out is to take the house at some angle that will show off any good points it may have,” declared Helen, wrinkling a puzzled brow.

“Then as likely as not you’ll have to take the tree on the side where the lightning hit it and peeled off all its bark,” growled her brother gloomily.

“That just shows that a photographer has to be more skilful than a painter,” she said. “The painter can do what he likes, but the photographer has to get good results out of what is set before him.”

“And as for balance—if nature happens to have placed things in balance, well and good; but if she didn’t what can you do about it?”

“Nothing, my child, unless you introduce some object that you have some power over. Put in a girl or a dog or a horse somewhere where their weight will bring about the result you want.”

“You can’t carry girls and dogs and horses round with you,” objected Roger, who was in a depressed mood this morning and found difficulties in every suggestion.

“You’ve got enough sisters and cousins for the girls, and you can take Christopher Columbus around with you in your pocket to play the four-footed friend,” laughed Helen.

“Speaking of Columbus—are we going to celebrate Columbus Day this year?” asked Roger, as he deftly inserted a new spool of film. “It’s just luck James and I being here at all, you know. We’d like to do something to celebrate being exposed to scarlet fever as soon as we got to Boston, and being sent home for it to incubate, and then having nothing hatch!”

“Haven’t you heard? Aunt Louise is going to have her housewarming on October 12, Columbus Day? She has asked the Club to do something appropriate.”

“I thought the Watkinses had asked us to go into New York to see the parade.”

“They have. That won’t interfere with us. They’ll come out here later and then we’ll do something in the evening in the new attic to amuse Aunt Louise’s guests.”

“Any idea what?”

“I’ve got an idea in the back of my head. I’ll have to talk it over first with the girls to see if we can manage the costumes. If we can I think it will be mighty pretty.”

Roger nodded absent-mindedly. He had perfect confidence in his sister’s good judgment and he was willing to do his part for his aunt’s sake as well as for the good name of the Club.

“What are you taking?” Helen asked him after they had roamed about the new place for a time. “You seem to be using a lot of film.”

“I am. I thought I’d take the new house and garden from every point of view I could, inside and out, and make two or three portfolios of them and send them to Father and Uncle Richard, as they’d probably like to have them.”

“What a perfectly darling idea! Isn’t Aunt Louise delighted?”

“She seems to be,” returned Roger.

“You knew she had asked Uncle Richard to come up for her house-warming?”

“Father, too; but it’s dollars to doughnuts they won’t be able to come, so I thought I’d do these any way.”

“Father won’t be able to, but Uncle Richard may.”

“He’ll be glad to have the prints even if he has seen the original places.”

“Perhaps he’ll like them better on that account.”

“I think I should. It would be like having your memory illustrated.”

“Are you going to do the rockery in the garden?”

“If the frost has left anything.”

“It must be placed in just the right spot for there’s a lot of it left. I passed it early to-day and it looked almost as pretty as if it were summer.”

“Dorothy certainly made a success of that.”

“It was an afterthought, too.”

“I believe the chief reason it has been so lovely is that it was placed in a natural position. The rocks look as if they ought to be just where they are.”

“Mrs. Schermerhorn’s rockery looks as if she had said, ‘Lo, I’ll have a rockery,’ and then she stuck it right in the middle of her lawn where no collection of rocks has been for twenty years.”

“And she has hot-house ferns in it!”

The brother and sister laughed delightedly at their neighbor’s ideas of natural beauty.

“Perhaps it was fortunate that Dorothy didn’t have a hot-house to draw on,” said Roger, moving from one side to another of his cousin’s rockery in order to get the best view of its remaining loveliness.

“Dorothy has too much sense. In the first place she snuggled hers in here under the trees, just the way the rocks are naturally over in FitzJames’s Woods. Then she brought over here exactly the plants she found there.”

“It had to look as if it were a bit of the woods, didn’t it?”

“Do you want me to be in this picture?”

“You look too dressed up.”

“Thank you! This is a middy I’ve worn all summer, and I’m just wearing out the rags of it on Saturdays.”

“Nevertheless, you dazzle me.”

“That’s a polite way of saying you don’t want me in the foreground. You’d better put in what Miss Daisy calls ‘contemporaneous human interest.’ I’m a great addition to any picture in which I appear.”

“You are, ma’am, of course,” replied Roger with exaggerated politeness, “but I think I’d like you under an arbor in a graceful attitude and not hobnobbing with these wild flowers.”

“You forget that wild flowers have been my special care this summer,” returned Helen, withdrawing to a point where she would not interfere with Roger’s plans. “Dorothy’s wild garden is only a copy of mine.”

“Not in arrangement. Hers is prettier with everything piled up on the stones this way—columbines, ferns, wild ginger, hepaticas.”

“You’re right about that. Mine had to be in a regular bed. Are you going to take a picture of the vegetable garden?”

“Certainly I am. And of tomatoes that were started with and without dirt bands.”

Roger’s chief attention during the summer garden campaign had been devoted to the raising of vegetables, while the girls had done wonders with flowers.

“What are dirt bands?” inquired Helen.

“I know,” cried the voice of Ethel Brown who came in sight through the pergola. “They’re brown paper cuffs to put around young plants. It keeps the earth all close and cozy and warm and they grow faster than the ones that don’t wear such fine clothes.”

“Listen to that,” Roger said approvingly to Helen. “Those Ethels haven’t let anything slip that happened in any of our gardens all summer. They know all about everything!”

“Roger is in a very complimentary mood this morning,” laughed Helen. “If I could only think of something to say I’d be polite in return.”

“I’m sorry it doesn’t come to you spontaneously,” replied her brother, “but what care I?” and he broke into song:

“Oo-hoo!” came a voice from the Lodge. “Come in and help.”

“There’s Dorothy calling,” cried Ethel Brown, and they all moved toward the house where they found their cousin on the back porch with an array of plates, bowls, stones, small plants, tiny trees and small china figures before her.

“May I inquire, madam, what on earth—” began Roger, but Ethel Brown’s exclamation enlightened him.

“You’re making Japanese gardens!”

“I’m going to try to. I think they’re awfully pretty and cunning. Let’s each make one.”

Mrs. Smith had bought a professionally made garden at an Oriental shop in New York, and the girls were seized with a desire to copy it.

“Here’s the real thing,” and Dorothy indicated a flat bowl of gray and dull green pottery. In it were some stones outlining the bed of a stream over which stretched the span of a tiny porcelain bridge. A twisted tree that looked aged in spite of its height of only three inches reared its evergreen head at one end of the bridge; a patch of grass the size of three fingers grew greenly at the other end, and a goldfish swam happily in a pool at the side.

“Margaret told me that horse-radish would grow if you kept it damp and let it sprout, so I’ve got several pieces started for our gardens.”

Sure enough, the horse-radish had sent forth shoots and a head of small leaves quite tall enough for the size of the garden, and its body looked brownish and gnarled like some bit of queer Oriental wood. Dorothy had taken up little plants of running growth like partridge berry and she had collected many wee ferns.

“We can sprinkle a pinch or two of grass seed and bird seed over them all when they’re done,” she said. “That ought to bring up something fresh every little while.”

“These will be all started for your housewarming,” suggested Helen.

“That’s why I’m doing them. We can leave them here, and I’ll come over every day so they’ll be watered. I think they’ll be awfully pretty and they’ll be different from the usual decorations.”

“I read somewhere the other day that the Japs arrange their flowers with a meaning.”

“O, they do,” cried Dorothy. “They have very little in one holder, perhaps only three flowers. One—the highest one—means Heaven, the next lower is Man, and the lowest is Earth.”

“I should have to have a diagram with every vase,” insisted Roger.

“The water in the bowl that holds the flowers represents the surface of the earth and the edge of the bowl is the horizon. Then they have ways of suggesting the different seasons—spring by flowers, summer by a lot of green leaves, autumn by bright colored leaves and winter by tall stems without much on them.”

“We’ve got flowers left in the gardens—lots of them,” insisted Ethel Brown proudly.

“Plenty,” answered Dorothy; “and by this time next year I hope we’ll have a little hot-house of our own so that we can have flowering plants all winter, but I like other things, too.”

“Miss Daisy was telling me the other day that we Americans didn’t pay enough attention to using through the winter branches of trees and seedling trees from the woods and boughs of pine and fir and cedar,” said Ethel Blue, who came through the house and had been listening to the conversation.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t have a small maple-tree growing all winter in the dining-room if you put your mind on it,” answered Helen.

“A great jar of Norway spruce with cones hanging from the fingers would be stunning,” decided Roger, as he set his horse-radish in place and planted a tree at one end of it.

“The covers for the radiators are all on now,” said Dorothy, changing the subject. “Did you notice them when you came through the house?”

The Ethels had not and Helen and Roger had gone directly to the garden, so they all went in on a tour of examination.

“Mother said that there was one thing about heating that she couldn’t stand, and that was the ugly radiators; so the heating man has tried to hide them as much as he could. There isn’t one in the house that stands out like a monument of pipes,” declared Dorothy.

“Even in the attic?”

“Not even in the attic. See, he’s covered most of them with grilles bronzed or painted like the wood-work of the room, so they aren’t at all conspicuous.”

“It’s these little points that make this house so attractive,” declared Helen. “Aunt Louise has thought of everything.”

“What are you going to wear at the party?” asked Ethel Blue of Dorothy.

“If we do that Columbus thing—” began Dorothy, looking at Helen.

“Go on,” the president of the U. S. C. replied to the inquiring gaze; “we might as well tell Roger now as later.”

“If we have the tableaux and pantomimes we can stay in our court dresses.”

“Court dresses?” inquired Roger, sitting up interestedly. “Why so scrumptious?”

“Columbus at the court of Ferdinand and Isabella,” answered Helen.

“You as Columbus.”

“Me? Me? Why this honor?” asked Roger meekly.

“Need you ask?” returned Helen. “That’s in reply to your remarks about me as an addition to the foreground of your photographs.”

“Even. I don’t care what I do as long as I have time to get it up.”

“You shall have plenty of time,” promised Dorothy. “What I’m more interested in just now is what we’re to have to eat on the festive night.”

“Is Aunt Louise going to let us decide?”

“Subject to her veto, I suspect,” smiled Helen.

Dorothy nodded.

“She says she wants something different from ice-cream and cake and chicken salad.”

They all laughed, for Rosemont was noted for invariably having these three excellent but monotonous viands at all her teas and receptions and church entertainments.

“I move we have cold turkey,” said Roger.

“It’s rather early for turks, but we can have capon if we can’t find a good turkey,” replied Ethel Brown, who kept the run of the Rosemont market.

“Let’s have little birds in aspic jelly,” suggested Dorothy.

They all gurgled with pleasure at this idea.

“Squabs,” went on Dorothy as her imagination began to work.

“Um,” commented Roger, his eyes shut.

“Split them down the back, dip them into beaten egg and melted butter, sprinkle them with the finest bread crumbs and broil them.”

“O,” came a gentle murmur from Roger, who was deeply affected by the recital of this appetizing dish. “Where’s the aspic?”