“Mother, am I interrupting you?” said a patient voice at this point.  Ellen Burgoyne, rosy, dishevelled, panting, stood some ten feet away, waiting patiently a chance to enter the conversation.

“No, my darling.”  Her mother held out a welcoming hand.  “Oh, I see,” she added, glancing at her watch.  “It’s half-past four.  Yes, you can go up for the gingerbread now.  You mustn’t carry the milk, you know, Ellen.”

“Mother,” said Ellen, flashing into radiance at the slightest encouragement, “have you told them about our Flower Festibul plans?”

“Oh, not yet!” Mrs. Burgoyne heaved a great sigh.  “I’m afraid I’ve committed myself to an entry for the parade,” she told the others ruefully.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re going to compete!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown.

“Well, we’re rather afraid we are!” Mrs. Burgoyne’s voice, if fearful, was hopeful too, for Ellen’s face was a study.  “Why, is it such a terrible effort?”

“Oh, yes, it’s an appalling amount of struggle and fuss, there’s all sorts of red tape, and the flowers are so messy,” answered the doctor’s wife warningly, “and this year will be worse than ever.  The Women’s Club of Apple Creek is going to enter a carriage, and you know our club is to have the White’s motor; it will be perfectly exquisite!  It’s to be all pink carnations, and Mr. White’s nephew, a Berkeley boy, and some of his friends, all in white flannels, are going to run it.  Doctor says there’ll be a hundred entries this year.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m in for it,” said Mrs. Burgoyne, with a sigh.  “I haven’t the least idea in the world what I’m going to do.  It isn’t as if we even had a surrey.  But I really was involved before I had time to think.  You know I’ve been trying, with some of my spare time,” her eyes twinkled, “to get hold of these little factory and cannery girls over in Old Paloma.”

“You told me,” said Mrs. Brown, “but I don’t see how that—­”

“Well, you see, their ringleader has been particularly ungracious to me.  A fine, superb, big creature she is, named Alice Carter.  This Alice came up to the children and me in the street the other day, and told me, in the gruffest manner, that she was interested in a little crippled girl over there, and had promised to take her to see the Flower Festival.  But it seems the child’s mother was afraid to trust her to Alice in the crowd and heat.  Quite simply she asked me if I could manage it.  I was tremendously touched, and we went to see the child.  She’s a poor, brave little scrap—­twelve years old, did she say, Baby?”

“Going on thirteen,” said Ellen rapidly; “and her father is dead, and her mother works, and she takes care of such a fat baby, and she is very gen-tul with him, isn’t she, Mother?  And she cried when Mother gave her books, and she can’t eat her lunch because her back aches, but she gave the baby his lunch, and Mother asked her if she would let a doctor fix her back, and she said,