The Brownlie girls, Eva and Edith, understood the remark Dorothy made as she entered, and so left the parlors entirely at her disposal, even locking the door from the hall and throwing open the library to accommodate any one who might come before Mary’s “practice” was over.

A recitation had been selected for Mary—­one that afforded ample opportunity for the child’s natural talent to act—­for she had talent, and both Mrs. White and Dorothy were delighted with the prospect of what the queer child would add to the program.

There was something so weird about Mary—­if that word might be fitly used to denote her peculiar characteristics.

She was not deformed, but she surely was deficient physically.  She was thin to emaciation, she had fiery red hair, and Roger always declared “her eyes and eyebrows were just as red as her hair.”

The recitation chosen for her was “Guilty or Not Guilty?” and it seemed to suit her strangely.  Of course, when a child is almost constantly in the company of aged persons, and takes no pleasure in play, besides being over-studious, she is bound to be “queer.”

And such was Mary Mahon.

When Dorothy threw open the parlor door after the rehearsal her face was radiant.  She was pleased—­delighted with Mary, and the girls waiting to be admitted to the “hall” exchanged knowing glances when Dorothy told them the room was ready.

Tom and Roland were there, Agnes Sinclair, Mabel Hastings, Ned, and Nat, of course; Tavia was with Eva Brownlie, chatting as if there was nothing else to be done that evening; Betty Bindley managed to get her dainty little self secure with Harold Osborne (Handsome Harold, they called him), and other members of the auxiliary and their friends were there ready to begin the work of rehearsing and decorating.

Besides the pictures there was to be music—­the Brownlie girls played the violin beautifully, and Dorothy was an acknowledged pianist; then Agnes Sinclair was to entertain with monologues, and the boys were to have a vocal double quartette.

The arranging of this program involved considerable work, so to-night there was no time to be wasted.

“Let’s get the wreaths first,” proposed Dorothy.  “We shall need such long strings to go all around the room.  While some of us are at these, others can be going through their parts.”

Tom grabbed a huge mass of broken laurel branches, made his way to a corner, placed two chairs before the pile of greens and deliberately sought out Dorothy.

“Come,” he said very kindly, “I’ve got a quiet job for you.  You usually get too much of the all-around business.  Let us run a race making the wreath, or strings, I suppose you want.  Here, Ned,” he called across the room, “get your stuff and your girl, and I’ll race you for a mile of green string.”

Could anything be more inopportune?  To select Dorothy to be his partner against Ned in a race!