“I never knew how much girls could help girls until I saw the scouts at that meeting the other night,” said Rose, a note of sadness in her subdued voice.  “If only I had such a chance before —­before—­”

“No regrets.  Remember all our trials bring compensations.  For instance, if you had not made the mistake of leaving home that night, you would never, perhaps, have met the Cosgroves,” and she smiled happily in an attempt to cheer the drooping spirits of the girl sitting opposite, who had not touched her cake or even sipped her tea.

“Yet I did not do it.  My mistake was not the—­the real clue,” Rose managed to say, her hold on useful English betraying its uncertain foundation.  “It was your mother’s good nature, not my mistake,” she clarified.

“I’ll accept the honors.  Drink your tea and take your cake.  It is not much of a compliment to turn aside from the cake I gave up the home lecture this afternoon to bake for you two.  Marty is gone out of town on business, and won’t be back for three days, and our big officer wants pie, and scorns cake.  So you see it is the plain duty of you two to eat this,” and Mrs. Cosgrove helped herself to a real sample of the iced pyramid.

“I cannot help thinking of that girl who ran off with the crippled children’s money,” Molly reverted to the earlier conversation.  “I don’t believe she was a girl scout at all,” she declared emphatically.

“But the paper said she was,” Rose spoke, fearing her voice would shake her into a full confession of her own conspiracy to shield Tessie.

“Oh, no, it did not state she was a scout,” Molly corrected, “the paragraph read she claimed to be.  There is a great difference.”

“Well, it is very queer our own good officer,” meaning Jim Cosgrove, “never found trace of that girl.  She must have covered her tracks in some unusual way,” declared Mrs. Cosgrove, “for Jim is not one to be easily fooled.  So Rose, if you are not going out I am sure you will be glad to help with the tea things.  Molly, I pressed your waist when I had the irons for Marty’s neckties, so I treated you as well.”

“Momsey, you are perfect in your plans.  Never use an iron for one without applying it to the other.  And I will be joyous in my fresh blouse.  Rose, please put a tag on my piece of cake, I’ll enjoy that end when I come in.  I have only a little time to get ready now, as I must make out a programme for our preliminary drill.  I’ll tell you all about it, Rose.  Take a walk when you finish helping mother.  You don’t get any too much air, you know,” and Molly hummed her newest waltz song as she capered around in preparation for the evening’s activities.  Molly was always jolly, if not singing she would be “chirping” as her brother Martin termed the queer sort of lispy whistle she indulged in, and even while dressing, it was a practice of hers to vary the operations with home-made jazz.