She could see it all as she went—­all she was to do.  There was the threadbare blanket they used for a silence cloth, and the table-cloth with the red stain by Johnny’s place where he had spilled cranberry jelly the night before last, when the cloth was “span clean.”  There were the places to set, as always, with the same old dishes and the same old knives and forks; and with the mechanical precision born of long practice she would rightly place, without half looking at them, the various napkins each in its slightly different wooden ring.  The utmost variety that she could hope for would be hot gingerbread instead of the last of Sunday’s layer-cake, and maybe frizzled beef, since they had finished Sunday’s roast in a meat pie this noon.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” said her mother as Mary Alice opened the sitting-room door, “and I was listening for you.”

“I went right up-stairs to change my things,” said Mary Alice, hoping that would end the matter.

“That’s what I knew you must have done when it got to be six o’clock and I didn’t hear you.  I could hardly wait for you to come.  I’ve such a surprise for you.”

Mary Alice could hardly believe her ears.  “A surprise?” she echoed, incredulously.

“Yes.  I got a letter this afternoon from your dear godmother.”

“Oh!” Mary Alice’s tone said plainly:  Is that all?  She had her own opinion of her godmother, whom she had not seen since she was a small child, and it was not an enthusiastic one.  Her name—­which she hated—­was her godmother’s name.  And aside from that, all she had ever got from her godmother was an occasional letter and, on Christmas and birthdays, a handkerchief or turnover collar or some other such trifle as could come in an envelope from Europe where her godmother lived.

Even in the matter of a godmother, it seemed, it was Mary Alice’s luck to have one without any of the fairy powers.  For although Mary Alice’s mother had dearly loved, in her girlhood, that friend for whom she had called her first baby, she had always to admit, to Mary Alice’s eager questioning, that the friend was neither beautiful nor rich nor gifted.  She was a “spinster person” and years ago some well-to-do friend had taken her abroad for company.  And there she had stayed; while the friend of her girlhood, whose baby was called for her, heard from her but desultorily.

“Your godmother has come back,” said Mary Alice’s mother, her voice trembling with excitement; “she’s in New York.  And she wants you to come and see her.”

For a moment, visions swam before Mary Alice’s eyes.  Then, “How kind of her!” she said, bitterly; and turned away.

Her mother understood.  “She’s sent a check!” she cried, waving it.

After that, until Mary Alice went, it was nothing but talk of clothes and other ways and means.  Just what the present circumstances of Godmother were, they could not even conjecture; but they were probably not very different than before, or she would have said something about them.  And the check she sent covered travelling expenses only.  Nor did she write:  Never mind about clothes; we will take care of those when she gets here.