“That’s why I used mignonette,” said Polly.  “Look!  Mine is half done.”

“Oh, it’s lovely!” cried Rose.

They surely were having a fine time.  The gay colored boxes filled with bonbons that Aunt Lois had given them lay on the grass between them, and they were almost empty boxes, because busy little hands had paused so often to dip into them.

“Six left,” said Rose; “three for you and three for me.  Let’s keep the boxes for paper dolls, they’re such pretty ones.”

“We will,” agreed Polly, “and now, Rose, try on the wreath.”

“Oh, it looks fine on your brown curls,” she cried, as she placed the pretty wreath on Rose’s head.

“And here’s yours,” said Rose, as she laid it lightly upon Polly’s flaxen curls.

“Oh, my, it’s just the right kind of a wreath for you!” she cried.  “Let’s go in and show them to Aunt Lois.”

They sprang from the grass and turned toward the house just in time to meet Nora, the maid, as she was coming toward them.

“Yer Aunt Lois wants yer ter come right in, Miss Rose, an’ bring Miss Polly with yer,” she said.

“That’s funny,” said Rose, with a merry laugh in which Polly joined, “for we were just going to run in and let her see our wreaths.”

“Well, now, ye look like fairies with the bright flowers on yer hair, an’ do ye go right in, because there’s someone has come that’s wantin’ ter see yer.  Keep the flowers on yer heads an’ go right in,” said Nora.

“Who is it, Nora?” Rose asked, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Well, I do’no whether she’d want yer ter be surprised or let me tell yer, but—­it’s yer Uncle John!”

The smiles fled from their faces.

“Uncle John!” gasped Rose.  “Oh, Nora, is he very old?  Does he carry a cane?  Is he deaf?  Is he going to take me away from here?”

She had clasped her hands nervously, and stood waiting for Nora to answer her questions.

“Now, Miss Rose,” said Nora, her eyes twinkling, “I think ye better go right in an’ see him.”

“But should you think he’s over ninety?” persisted Rose.

“Well I shouldn’t say he was over that,” Nora replied dryly.

“Come Polly,” said Rose.  “There’s nothing else to do but to go in.”

With lagging steps they walked along the path and turned toward the house.  Then for the first time they saw the automobile in which the guest had arrived.

“Why, who drove him here?” said Rose.  “Look!  There’s no man waiting in it, and if he’s ninety he wouldn’t drive alone, would he?”

Polly shook her head.

“Perhaps he isn’t quite that,” she said.

It was the only bit of encouragement that she could offer.

“I think I’ll wait here on the piazza,” she said when they had reached the door.

“Why, don’t you want to meet him?” Rose asked.

“Oh, yes,” Polly answered, “but if he’s—­if he, oh, I don’t quite know how I mean it.  I just thought perhaps you’d like to know him a little, and then I’ll come in, and I’ll know him, too.”