bodily, and carried her, flushed and protesting, to her favourite chair, and dumped her into it. “Aunt Peace, is there any place in the house where you might care to go?”

[Pg 106]

“Thank you, no. I’ll stay where I am, if I may. I’m very comfortable.”

Lynn paced back and forth with a heavy tread which resounded upon the polished floor. Iris happened to be passing the door and looked in, anxiously, for signs of damage.

“Iris,” laughed Miss Field, “what a little old maid you are! You remind me of that story we read together.”

“Which story, Aunt Peace?”

“The one in which the over-neat woman married a careless man to reform him. She used to follow him around with a brush and dustpan and sweep up after him.”

“That would make him nice and comfortable,” observed Lynn. “What became of the man?”

“He was sent to the asylum.”

“And the woman?” asked Margaret.

“She died of a broken heart.”

“I think I’d be in the asylum too,” said [Pg 107]Lynn. “I do not desire to be swept up after.”

[Pg 107]

“Nobody desires to sweep up after you,” retorted Iris, “but it has to be done. Otherwise the house would be uninhabitable.”

“East Lancaster,” continued Lynn, irrelevantly, “is the abode of mummies and fossils. The city seal is a broom—at least it should be. I was never in such a clean place in my life. The exhibits themselves look as though they’d been freshly dusted. Dirt is wholesome—didn’t you ever hear that? How the population has lived to its present advanced age, is beyond me.”

“We have never really lived,” returned Iris, with a touch of sarcasm, “until recently. Before you came, we existed. Now East Lancaster lives.”

“Who’s the pious party in brown silk with the irregular dome on her roof?” asked Lynn.

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