“Now, Mac, I want you to stay there,” she said with decision.

There was a brief silence.  Then Mac remarked,—­

“You act and look awful bangy, to-day, mamma, just as if you were going to sweep rooms right away.”

Five days later, Mrs. Holden acknowledged to herself that she felt “bangy.”  It was her first long journey without her husband and, less independent than her sisters, she would have dreaded it in any case.  Without Mr. Holden, the trip was an undertaking; with Mac, it was almost insupportable.  She embarked with a lunch basket, with picture books and with theories.  She landed, a chastened woman.  Within twelve hours, the basket was empty, the picture books were in shreds, and Mac, bareheaded, coated with cinders and wreathed in smiles, was prancing up and down the car, heedless of her admonitions.  By day, the other passengers petted him and encouraged him to all manner of pertnesses.  At night, they murmured, not always among themselves, when he waked up and in stentorian tones demanded a drink.  No child of three is altogether a desirable companion on a long journey, least of all McAlister Holden.  Small wonder that it was a pale and haggard Hope who drove up to The Savins, one night in late June, while Mac was as vivacious as at the start!

He went through the introductions with the nonchalance of his years, though he resisted Theodora’s efforts to kiss him, and sniffed disdainfully at Phebe who was trying for her sister’s sake to conceal her dislike of children.  By Mrs. McAlister’s side, he paused and looked straight up into her face.  Then he tucked his hand into hers confidingly.

“Are you my grandma?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Why, you look too new,” he said frankly, and then put up his rosy lips for a kiss.  For the moment, the cherub side was uppermost, and his mother, as she reflected upon the permanence of first impressions, rejoiced that it was so, and she hurried the child off to bed, for fear he might do something to destroy the illusion.

“Mamma,” he said sleepily, as she left him, to go down for her own dinner; “will you please tell me just vis much?”

“Well?”

“Were you a mamma when you lived here before?”

“No, Mac.”

“And now you’ve grown out into a beautifully mamma.  Good-night!” And he went to sleep with the saintly side of his character still uppermost.

The Farringtons and Cicely dined at The Savins; but, directly after dinner, Cicely excused herself and went home to do some practising.

“No; I suppose it could wait,” she said to Allyn who followed her to the door; “but it must be done some time.  It is ages since you were all here together, and you ought to be just by yourselves to-night.”

“But you are one of the family,” Allyn protested.

“That’s nice of you, Allyn; but it isn’t quite the same thing.  Besides, if I practise now, I shall have more time for fun, to-morrow.  Go back to your sister.  Isn’t she a dear?”