“I am Hazel Ripwinkley,” she began; as if she had said, I am Pease-blossom or Mustard-seed; “I go to school with Ada.”  And went on, then, with her compliments and her party.  And at the end she said, very simply,—­

“Miss Craydocke is coming, and she knows the games.”

“Miss Craydocke, of Orchard Street?  And where do you live?”

“In Aspen Street, close by, in Uncle Oldways’ house.  We haven’t lived there very long,—­only this winter; before that we always lived in Homesworth.”

“And Homesworth is in the country?  Don’t you miss that?”

“Yes; but Aspen Street isn’t very bad; we’ve got a garden.  Besides, we like streets and neighbors.”

Then she added,—­for her little witch-stick felt spiritually the quality of what she spoke to,—­“Wouldn’t Mr. Geoffrey come for Ada in the evening?”

“I haven’t the least doubt he would!” said Mrs. Geoffrey, her face all alive with exquisite and kindly amusement, and catching the spirit of the thing from the inimitable simplicity before her, such as never, she did believe, had walked into anybody’s house before, in this place and generation, and was no more to be snubbed than a flower or a breeze or an angel.

It was a piece of Witch Hazel’s witchery, or inspiration, that she named Miss Craydocke; for Miss Craydocke was an old, dear friend of Mrs. Geoffrey’s, in that “heart of things” behind the fashions, where the kingdom is growing up.  But of course Hazel could not have known that; something in the lady’s face just made her think of the same thing in Miss Craydocke’s, and so she spoke, forgetting to explain, nor wondering in the very least, when she was met with knowledge.

It was all divining, though, from the beginning to the end.  That was what took her into these homes, rather than to a score of other places up and down the self-same streets, where, if she had got in at all, she would have met strange, lofty stares, and freezing “thank you’s,” and “engagements.”

“I’ve found the real folks, mother, and they’re all coming!” she cried, joyfully, running in where Mrs. Ripwinkley was setting little vases and baskets about on shelf and table, between the white, plain, muslin draperies of the long parlor windows.  In vases and baskets were sweet May flowers; bunches of deep-hued, rich-scented violets, stars of blue and white periwinkle, and Miss Craydocke’s lilies of the valley in their tall, cool leaves; each kind gathered by itself in clusters and handfuls.  Inside the wide, open fireplace, behind the high brass fender and the shining andirons, was a “chimney flower pot,” country fashion, of green lilac boughs,—­not blossoms,—­and woodbine sprays, and crimson and white tulips.  The room was fair and fragrant, and the windows were wide open upon vines and grass.

“It looks like you, mother, just as Mrs. Geoffrey’s house looks like her.  Houses ought to look like people, I think.”

“There’s your surprise, children.  We shouldn’t be doing it right without a surprise, you know.”