been flung; and at the head of each a young Indian boy, magnificent in wampum and fringed leather, feathers and beads, walked sedately.  The children were grouped, pyramid-fashion, on the wagon, in a nest of hydrangea blooms, the pink, and cream, and blue of their gowns blending with the flowers all about them, the sunlight shining full in their happy eyes.  Over their shoulders were garlands of poppies, roses, sweet-peas, daisies, carnations, lilies, or other blossoms; their hands were full of flowers.  But it was the radiance of their faces that shone brightest, after all.  It was the little consumptive’s ecstatic smile, as she sat resting against an invisible support; it was the joy in Mary Scott’s thin eager face, framed now in her loosened dark hair, and with the shadow, like her crutch, laid aside for a while, that somehow brought tears to the eyes that watched.  Santa Paloma cheered and applauded these forgotten children of hers; and the children laughed and waved their hands in return.

Youth and happiness and summer-time incarnate, the vision went on its way, down the bright street; and other carriages followed it, and were praised as those that had gone before had been.  But no entry in any flower parade that Santa Paloma had ever known, was as much discussed as this one.  Indeed, it began a new era; but that was later on.  When Mrs. Burgoyne’s plain white frock appeared among the elaborate gowns worn at the club luncheon that afternoon, she was quite overwhelmed by congratulations.  She went away very early, to superintend the children’s luncheon at the Hall, and then Mrs. White had a chance to tell the distinguished guests who she was, and that she could well afford to play Lady Bountiful to the Santa Paloma children.

“One wouldn’t imagine it, she seems absolutely simple and unspoiled,” said Mrs. Governor.

“She is!” said Mrs. Lloyd unexpectedly.

“I told her how scared most of us had been at the mere idea of her coming here, Parker,” Mrs. Lloyd told her husband later, “and how friendly she is, and that she always wears little wash dresses, and that the other girls are beginning to wear checked aprons and things, because her girls do!  Of course, I said it sort of laughingly, you know, but I don’t think Clara White liked it one bit, and I don’t care!  Clara is rather mad at me, anyway,” she went on, musingly, “because yesterday she telephoned that she was going to send that Armenian peddler over here, with some Madeira lunch cloths.  They were beauties, and only twenty-three dollars; you’d pay fifty for them at Raphael Weil’s—­they’re smuggled, I suppose!  But I simply said, ‘Clara, I can’t afford it!’ and let it go at that.  She laughed—­quite cattily, Parker!—­and said, ’Oh, that’s rather funny!’ But I don’t care whether Clara White thinks I’m copying Mrs. Burgoyne or not!  I might as well copy her as somebody else!”