Grandma Sherwood laughed.  “I hardly think they’ll do that,” she said; “but they’re liable to set down the baskets, and go hunting for wild flowers or something, and never think of their errand again.”

But, on the contrary, the children were quite interested in their mission.

“Your grandma is an awful good woman,” observed Molly.

“Yes, she is,” agreed Marjorie; “it’s lovely of her to send all these good things to poor people.  It must be awful to be so poor that you don’t have enough to eat!”

“Yes, but it must be lovely when the baskets come in.”

“But they don’t always come in,” said Marjorie.

“They must,” declared Molly, with an air of conviction; “if they didn’t, the poor people would have nothing to eat, and then they would die; and you know yourself, we never hear of anybody dying of starvation around here.”

“No; not around here, maybe.  But in China they drop off by millions, just from starvation.”

“Well, they wouldn’t if your grandmother was there.  She’d send baskets to every one of them.”

“I believe she would,” said Marjorie, laughing; “she’d manage it somehow.”

By this time they had reached the Dunns’ domain.  At least they had come to a broken-down gate in a tumble-down fence, which Marjorie knew was the portal of their destination.  In their endeavors to open the rickety gate the girls pushed it over, and nearly fell over, themselves.

But carefully holding their baskets they climbed over the pile of fallen pickets and followed the grass-grown path to the house.

And a forlorn enough house it was.  Everything about it betokened not only poverty but shiftlessness.  Marjorie was not experienced enough to know how often the former is the result of the latter, and her heart was full of pity for people who must live in such comfortless surroundings.  The little old cottage was unpainted, and the front porch was in such a dilapidated condition that one step was entirely missing and several floor-boards were gone.

“It’s like walking a tight-rope,” said Marjorie, as she picked her way carefully along what she hoped was a sound plank.  “But it’s rather exciting.  I wonder if we can get in.”

There was no bell, and she tapped loudly on the door.

Almost instantly it was opened by a child whose appearance almost made Marjorie scream out with laughter.

A little girl of about ten, dressed in a bright pink skirt and a bright blue waist, stood before them.  This startling color combination was enhanced by a red sash, which, though faded in streaks, was wide and tied at the back in a voluminous bow.  The girl’s naturally straight hair had apparently been urged by artificial means to curl in ringlets, but only a part of it had succumbed to the hot iron.  The rest fairly bristled in its stiff straightness, and the whole mop was tied up with a large bow of red ribbon.