“Oh, I know,” cried Tavia, clapping her hands like a delighted child, “It’s morning and evening.  I’m sunrise and you are evening.  Or I’m sunset and you are evening.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Dorothy, too enraptured to say more.

“And with your yellow head you will look like an angel.”

“Now, see here, Miss Sunset and Sunrise, I don’t mind being cloudy or even starry, nor yet heavenly, but don’t you dare go one latitude or longitude further.  I am mortally afraid Aunt Winnie has elected to wear amethyst this very evening, and when the combination gets together I expect something will happen—­something like Mt.  Pelee, you know.”

“We might call it our elementary evening,” went on Tavia, “and then look out for storms.  You said the boys were coming?”

“Coming!” and Dorothy sprang to the door.  “They are here now.  Listen to that shout?  That’s Ned.  Oh, I must run down.  Come along,” and before Tavia had a chance to “collect her manners” she was bowing after Dorothy’s profuse introduction.

“I’ve heard of Miss Travers,” said Edward pleasantly, while Nat was “weighing” Dorothy with one hand, and attempting to shake the other in Tavia’s direction.

“You must call her Tavia,” insisted Dorothy, getting away from Ned, “or if you prefer you may call her Octavia—­she has a birthday within the octave of Christmas.”

“Should have been called Yule, for yule-tide,” said Nat.  “Not too late yet, is it Tavia?”

Mrs. White was smiling at the good times “her children” had already made for themselves.  She now insisted upon calling Dorothy daughter and she was so kind to Tavia that she made no distinction but said “daughters” in addressing both.

“Just see, boys,” said their mother, unpinning Tavia’s now famous half head of hair, “that is all there is left.”

“Never!” exclaimed Nat, handling the braid gingerly.  “How much did you settle for?”

“That would be telling,” said Mrs. White, “but what I want you boys to do is to drive the girls down to your barber’s.  You said it was a very nice place.”

“Tip-top,” interrupted Ned.  “Bay rum or old rum or anything else from oyster cocktail to Castile soap.”

“But have you seen ladies go there?” asked the mother.

“Took ’em there myself,” insisted the younger boy.  “Don’t you remember the day Daisy Bliss got burrs in her hair?  Of course I did not put them there—­”

“Oh, no!” drawled Ned.

“Well, she always was a dub at ducking,” went on the other, “but I put up for the hair cut all the same.”

“Now do listen, boys,” and the mother spoke firmly.  “Tavia must have her hair trimmed.  I tried to get a hair-dresser to come out here, but we could not have it done until after the railroad man appraised it.  So now the hair-dresser could not get here until after Sunday.  That is why I am having recourse to a barber.”

“Couldn’t do better, mother,” spoke up Ned, who had been trying to get a word in with Dorothy “on the other side.”