They walked slowly back to the house together under the locusts that arched their star-blossomed boughs above them.  The band was playing softly, and Betty, uplifted by the music, the lights, and the good fortune in store for her, could hardly believe that her feet were touching the earth.  She seemed to be floating along in some sort of dreamland.  The old feeling swept over her that always came with the music of the harp.  It was as if she were away off from everything, her head among the stars, and strange, beautiful thoughts that she had no words for danced on ahead like shining will-o’-the-wisps.

Joyce was the first to share her good fortune, and while she was telling it Eugenia came up with another joyful announcement.

“We are going to Tours,” she cried, “and across the Loire to St. Symphorien, where Joyce stayed all winter.  And we’ll see the Gate of the Giant Scissors, and little Jules who lives there.”

“I am so glad,” said Joyce.  “You must get Madame Greville to show you everything; the kiosk in the old garden where we had our Thanksgiving barbecue; the coach-house where we shut up the goats that day when they chewed the cushions of the pony-cart to pieces; and the room where we had the Christmas tree, and the laurel hedges in bloom—­oh, I’m so glad you’re going to see them all.”

“What’s that?” asked the Little Colonel, coming up behind them; and then Betty told her, too.

“Only think!  Lloyd Sherman,” she added, giving her a rapturous hug, “if it hadn’t been for you it never would have happened.  It’s all because you had this delightful house party and invited me to come.”

“Here comes Mrs. MacIntyre,” interrupted Joyce, in a low tone.  “Did you ever see anything so fine and soft and fluffy as that beautiful white hair of hers?  It looks like a crimped snow-drift.  I wouldn’t mind being a grandmother to-morrow if I could look like that.”

She came up smiling, and beckoned the girls to follow her.  “I want to show you something comical,” she said.  “I just discovered it.”  She led the way to the end of the porch, and there, standing in a row, were six little darkies, so black that their faces scarcely showed against the black background of the night.  Only their rolling white eyeballs and gleaming teeth could be seen distinctly.

“They are Allison’s proteges,” she said.  “Sylvia Gibbs’s children, you know.  They are always on the outskirts of all the festivities when they think they can pick up any crumbs in the way of refreshments.  But they’ll have some good excuse to give for coming, you may be sure.”

“Oh, they are the children who acted the charades at the old mill picnic,” said Eugenia, drawing nearer.  “Get them to talk if you can, Mrs. MacIntyre.  Please do.”

Except for a broader grin in token that they heard Mrs. MacIntyre’s questions, they were as unresponsive as six little black kittens, and Keith, coming up just then, was sent to find Miss Allison.  “They always talk for auntie,” he said.  “She is over in one of the tents, and I’ll go get her.”