Bart looked disappointed over the mild character of the scrape.  From what he had seen of her he had supposed her adventures would be seasoned with a certain spice of deviltry.

“I wouldn’t have done that, I’d have hidden it in my pocket,” he replied, sliding down on the sofa until his head rested on the cushion next her own.

“We tried, but she was too close.  Poor old Griggsey got a dreadful scolding.  She wasn’t like Miss Jones—­she wouldn’t tell on the girls.”

“And did they let any of the fellows come to see you?” Bart asked.

“No; only brothers and cousins once in a long while.  Maria Collins tried to pass one of her beaux, Max Feilding, off as a cousin, but Miss Sarah went down to see him and poor Maria had to stay upstairs.”

“I’d have got in,” said Bart with some emphasis, rousing himself from his position and twisting his body so he could again look squarely in her face.  This escapade was more to his liking.

“How?” asked Lucy in a tone that showed she not only quite believed it, but rather liked him the better for saying so.

“Oh I don’t know.  I’d have cooked up some story.”  He was leaning over now, toying with the lace that clung to Lucy’s arms.  “Did you ever have any one of your own friends treated in that way?”

Jane’s voice cut short her answer.  She had seen the two completely absorbed in each other, to the exclusion of the other guests who were now coming in, and wanted Lucy beside her.

The young girl waved her fan gayly in answer, rose to her feet, turned her head close to Bart’s, pointed to the incoming guests, whispered something in his ear that made him laugh, listened while he whispered to her in return, and in obedience to the summons crossed the room to meet a group of the neighbors, among them old Judge Woolworthy, in a snuff-colored coat, high black stock, and bald head, and his bustling little wife.  Bart’s last whisper to Lucy was in explanation of the little wife’s manner —­who now, all bows and smiles, was shaking hands with everybody about her.

Then came Uncle Ephraim Tipple, and close beside him walked his spouse, Ann, in a camel’s-hair shawl and poke-bonnet, the two preceded by Uncle Ephraim’s stentorian laugh, which had been heard before their feet had touched the porch outside.  Mrs. Cromartin now bustled in, accompanied by her two daughters—­slim, awkward girls, both dressed alike in high waists and short frocks; and after them the Bunsbys, father, mother, and son—­all smiles, the last a painfully thin young lawyer, in a low collar and a shock of whitey-brown hair, “looking like a patent window-mop resting against a wall,” so Lucy described him afterward to Martha when she was putting her to bed; and finally the Colfords and Bronsons, young and old, together with Pastor Dellenbaugh, the white-haired clergyman who preached in the only church in Warehold.