“It musn’t be any of us,” said a voice.  “Things are mighty critical, though.  It’s as if everybody, the world and the flesh and the Whole Family, had been blundering round and setting their feet down as near as they could to a flower.  But the flower isn’t trampled yet.  We’ll build a fence round it.”  My heart beat so fast that I had to put my hand over it.  I wondered if I were going to have heart-failure, and I knew grandmother would say, “Digitalis!” When I thought of that I laughed, and Lorraine called out, “Who’s there?” She came to the long window.  “Why, Peggy, child,” said she, “come in.”  She had me by the hand and led me forward.  They got up as I stepped in, Charles Edward and Stillman Dane.  Then I knew why I was glad.  If Stillman Dane had been here all these dreadful things would not have happened, because he is a psychologist, and he would have understood everybody at once and influenced them before they had time to do wrong.

“Jove!” said Charles Edward.  “Don’t you look handsome, Peg!”

“Goose!” said Lorraine, as if she wanted him to be still.  “A good neat girl is always handsome.  There’s an epigram for you.  And Peggy’s hair is loose in three places.  Let me fix it for you, child.”

So we all laughed, and Lorraine pinned me up in a queer, tender way, as if she were mother dress-me for something important, and we sat down, and began to talk about college.  I am afraid Stillman Dane and I did most of the talking, for Lorraine and Charles Edward looked at each other and smiled a little, in a fashion they have, as if they understood each other, and Lorraine got up to show him the bag she had bought that day for the steamer; and while she was holding it out to him and asking him if it cost too much, she stopped short and called out, sharply, “Who’s there?” I laughed.  “Lorraine has the sharpest ears,” I said.  “Ears!” said Lorraine.  “It isn’t ears.  I smell orris.  She’s coming.  Mr. Dane, will you take Peggy out of that window into the garden?  Don’t yip, either of you, while you’re within gunshot, and don’t appear till I tell you.”

“Lorraine!” came a voice, softly, from the front walk.  It was Aunt Elizabeth.  She has a way of calling to announce herself in a sweet, cooing tone.  I said to Charles Edward once it was like a dove, and he said:  “No, my child, not doves, but woodcock.”  Alice giggled and called out, quite loudly, ‘"Springes to catch woodcock!’” And he shook his head at her and said, “You all-knowing imp! isn’t even Shakespeare hidden from you?” But now the voice didn’t sound sweet to me at all, because I wanted to get away.  We rose at the same minute, Mr. Dane and I, and Lorraine seemed to waft us from the house on a kind little wind.  At the foot of the steps we stopped for fear the gravel should crunch, and while we waited for Aunt Elizabeth to go in the other way I looked at Mr. Dane to see if he wanted to laugh as much as I. He did.  His eyes were full of fun and pleasure, and he gave me a little nod, as if we were two children going to play a game we knew all about.  Then I heard Aunt Elizabeth’s voice inside.  It was low and broken—­what Charles Edward called once her “come-and-comfort-me” voice.