“No.”

“How queer!  But you know about them, of course?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Not know about Easter eggs?  Where in the world have you lived not to know about Easter?  I thought everybody—­”

“I do know about Easter,” interrupted the boy, sharply.  “All I said was that I didn’t know about your colored eggs.”

“Oh, well, I guess it is Episcopalians mostly who keep that old custom going in this part of the country, and I suppose your people are not Episcopalians, are they?”

“No.”

“Well, we are, and we’ve lived in Washington, too, where everybody has colored eggs, and all the boys and girls there used to go to the egg-rolling party the Monday morning after Easter; and a good many of them go now.”

“Egg-rolling party?” cried the boy, with such wide-open eyes of astonishment that Elsie and Marge both burst out laughing, whereat the boy flushed up angrily, and seizing the reins was starting off, when the cook called to him to wait until she had the butter-box ready for him to take back.

“Oh!” whispered Marge, “we’ve hurt his feelings, Elsie; it is too bad.”  Then she ran forward, and said gently:  “’Tisn’t anything at all strange that you didn’t know about the rolling.  Elsie and I didn’t until we went to Washington to live, and saw the game ourselves, and had it explained to us; and I’ll explain it to you.  We had a lot of eggs boiled hard, and dyed all sorts of pretty flower colors and patterns; and these we took to the top of a little hill near the White House, and each one, or each party, started two or three or more eggs of different colors, and made guesses as to which color would beat.  After the game was over, we exchanged the eggs we had, and gave away a good many to the poor children.  Oh, it was great fun.”

The boy laughed.  “Fun!  I should call it baby play!” he said derisively.

“Well, you can call it baby play if you like,” returned Marge, with great dignity; “but the ‘baby play’ has come down through a good many years.  It is an old Easter custom that was brought over from England by one of the early settlers at Washington.”

“I—­I didn’t mean—­I’m sorry—­” began Royal, stammeringly; when—­

“Royal!  Royal Purcel!” called out a voice; and a little fellow scarcely more than six or seven years old came running up the driveway, and made a flying leap into the wagon.

“Do you belong to a circus?” cried Elsie.

“No; wish I did.  I belong to Royal.”

“Who is Royal?”

“Who is Royal?” repeated the child, making a cunning, impudent face at her.

“He means me.  My name is Royal,—­Royal Purcel; and he,” nodding towards the child, “is my brother.”

“Royal Purcel! What a funny name!  It sounds—­”

“Don’t, Elsie,” remonstrated Marge.

“It sounds just like Royal Purple,” giggled Elsie, regardless of her sister’s remonstrance.