during most of the pleasant afternoons.  And if anything ever came of it, we would n’t mind, but nothing ever does.  There have been so many young men,—­I could n’t begin to count them, but they have worn out the seats of four chairs,—­and why does n’t one of them take her away?  Then we could have a nice, plain young lady who would sit quietly on the front steps with the old people, and who would n’t want me to carry messages for her three times a day.”

At the present moment, however, Miss Anita Ferguson, clad in a black habit, with a white rose in her buttonhole, and a neat black derby with a scarf of white crepe de chine wound about it, had gone on the mesa for a horseback ride, so Polly and Margery had borrowed the cosy corner for a chat.

Margery was crocheting a baby’s afghan, and Polly was almost obscured by a rumpled, yellow dress which lay in her lap.

“You observe my favorite yellow gown?” she asked.

“Yes, what have you done to it?”

“Gin Sing picked blackberries in the colander.  I, supposing the said colander to be a pan with the usual bottom, took it in my lap and held it for an hour while I sorted the berries.  Result:  a hideous stain a foot and a half in diameter, to say nothing of the circumference.  Mr. Greenwood suggested oxalic acid.  I applied it, and removed both the stain and the dress in the following complete manner;” and Polly put her brilliant head through an immense circular hole in the front breadth of the skirt.

“It ’s hopeless, is n’t it? for of course a patch won’t look well,” said Margery.

“Hopeless?  Not a bit.  You see this pretty yellow and white striped lawn?  I have made a long, narrow apron of it, and ruffled it all round.  I pin it to my waist thus, and the hole is covered.  But it looks like an apron, and how do I contrive to throw the public off the scent?  I add a yoke and sash of the striped lawn, and people see simply a combination-dress.  I do the designing, and my beloved little mother there will do the sewing; forgetting her precious Polly’s carelessness in making the hole, and remembering only her cleverness in covering it.”

“Capital!” said Margery; “it will be prettier than ever.  Oh dear! that dress was new when we had our last lovely summer in the canon.  Shall we ever go again, all together, I wonder?  Just think how we are all scattered,—­the Winships traveling in Europe (I ’ll read you Bell’s last letter by and by); Geoffrey Strong studying at Leipsic; Jack Howard at Harvard, with Elsie and her mother watching over him in Cambridge; Philip and I on the ranch as usual, and you here.  We are so divided that it does n’t seem possible that we can ever have a complete reunion, does it?”

“No,” said Polly, looking dreamily at the humming-birds hovering over the honeysuckle; “and if we should, everything would be different.  Bless dear old Bell’s heart!  What a lovely summer she must be having!  I wonder what she will do.”