Round the smooth curve of broad, level road that skirted the ledges from the upper village pranced four splendid bays; and after them rollicked and swayed, with a perfect delirium of wheels and springs, the great black and yellow bodied vehicle, like a huge bumble-bee buzzing back with its spoil of a June day to the hive.  The June sunset was golden and rosy upon the hills and cliffs, and Giant’s Cairn stood burnished against the eastern blue.  Gay companies, scattered about piazzas and greenswards, stopped in their talk, or their promenades, or their croquet, to watch the arrivals.

“It’s stopping at the Green Cottage.”

“It’s the Haddens.  Their rooms have been waiting since the twenty-third, and all the rest are full.”  And two or three young girls dropped mallets and ran over.

“Maud Walcott!” “Mattie Shannon!”

“Jeannie!” “Nell!”

“How came you here?”

“We’ve been here these ten days,—­looking for you the last three.”

“Why, I can’t take it in!  I’m so surprised!”

“Isn’t it jolly, though?”

“Miss Goldthwaite—­Miss Walcott; Miss Shannon—­Miss Goldthwaite;—­my sister, Mrs. Linceford.”

“Me voici!” And a third came up suddenly, laying a hand upon each of the Haddens from behind.

“You, Sin Saxon!  How many more?”

“We’re coming, Father Abraham!  All of us, nearly, three hundred thousand more—­or less; half the Routh girls, with Madam to the fore!”

“And we’ve got all the farther end of the wing downstairs,—­the garden bedrooms; you’ve no idea how scrumptious it is!  You must come over after tea, and see.”

“Not all, Mattie; you forget the solitary spinster.”

“No, I don’t; who ever does?  But can’t you ignore her for once?”

“Or let a fellow speak in the spirit of prophecy?” said Sin Saxon.  “We’re sure to get the better of Graywacke, and why not anticipate?”

“Graywacke?” said Jeannie Hadden.  “Is that a name?  It sounds like the side of a mountain.”

“And acts like one,” rejoined Sin Saxon.  “Won’t budge.  But it isn’t her name, exactly, only Saxon for Craydocke; suggestive of obstinacy and the Old Silurian,—­an ancient maiden who infests our half the wing.  We’ve got all the rooms but hers, and we’re bound to get her out.  She’s been there three years, in the same spot,—­went in with the lath and plaster,—­and it’s time she started.  Besides, haven’t I got manifest destiny on my side?  Ain’t I a Saxon?” Sin Saxon tossed up a merry, bewitching, saucy glance out of her blue, starlike eyes, that shone under a fair, low brow touched and crowned lightly with the soft haze of gold-brown locks frizzed into a delicate mistiness after the ruling fashion of the hour.

“What a pretty thing she is!” said Mrs. Linceford, when, seeing her busy with her boxes, and the master of the house approaching to show the new arrivals to their rooms, Sin Saxon and her companions flitted away as they had come, with a few more sentences of bright girl-nonsense flung back at parting.  “And a witty little minx as well.  Where did you know her, Jeannie?  And what sort of a satanic name is that you call her by?”