Tracy touched his badge.  “These are the ‘Blue Ribbon Brand,’ best goods in the market.”

“Come to think of it, there aren’t so very many new things one can do,” Tom remarked.

“Not in Winton, at any rate,” Bob added.

“If anyone dares say anything derogatory to Winton, on this, or any other, outing of the ‘S.  W. F. Club,’ he, or she, will get into trouble,” Josie said sternly.

Mrs. Boyd was waiting for them on the steps, Shirley close by, while a glimpse of a white umbrella seen through the trees told that Mr. Dayre was not far off.

“It’s the best cherry season in years,” Mrs. Boyd declared, as the young folks came laughing and crowding about her.  She was a prime favorite with them all.  “My, how nice you look!  Those badges are mighty pretty.”

“Where’s yours?” Pauline demanded.

“It’s in my top drawer, dear.  Looks like I’m too old to go wearing such things, though ’twas ever so good in you to send me one.”

“Hilary,” Pauline turned to her sister, “I’m sure Mrs. Boyd’ll let you go to her top drawer.  Not a stroke of business does this club do, until this particular member has her badge on.”

“Now,” Tom asked, when that little matter had been attended to, “what’s the order of the day?”

“I hope you’ve worn old dresses?” Mrs. Boyd said.

“I haven’t, ma’am,” Tracy announced.

“Order!” Bob called.

“Eat all you like—­so long’s you don’t get sick—­and each pick a nice basket to take home,” Mrs. Boyd explained.  There were no cherries anywhere else quite so big and fine, as those at The Maples.

“You to command, we to obey!” Tracy declared.

“Boys to pick, girls to pick up,” Tom ordered, as they scattered about among the big, bountifully laden trees.

  “For cherry time,
  Is merry time,”

Shirley improvised, catching the cluster of great red and white cherries Jack tossed down to her.

Even more than the rest of the young folks, Shirley was getting the good of this happy, out-door summer, with its quiet pleasures and restful sense of home life.  She had never known anything before like it.  It was very different, certainly, from the studio life in New York, different from the sketching rambles she had taken other summers with her father.  They were delightful, too, and it was pleasant to think of going back to them again—­some day; but just at present, it was good to be a girl among other girls, interested in all the simple, homely things each day brought up.

And her father was content, too, else how could she have been so?  It was doing him no end of good.  Painting a little, sketching a little, reading and idling a good deal, and through it all, immensely amused at the enthusiasm with which his daughter threw herself into the village life.  “I shall begin to think soon, that you were born and raised in Winton,” he had said to her that very morning, as she came in fresh from a conference with Betsy Todd.  Betsy might be spending her summer in a rather out-of-the-way spot, and her rheumatism might prevent her from getting into town—­as she expressed it—­but very little went on that Betsy did not hear of, and she was not one to keep her news to herself.