The calls on Bridget still continued and the long-talked-of play
was slowly approaching completion. Jean had worked on it at
intervals during her father's illness, and it was now so nearly
done that the girls had thought it was advisable to begin
rehearsing on the first part of it at once.
And best of all the good times were the long, cosey evenings, when
they gathered around the open fire, either at the Hapgood house,
or else in Mrs. Adams's parlor, to talk over the events of the day
or tell stories, while they roasted apples and popped corn over
the coals, regardless of the fact that much better results and
much fewer burns would have come from the same labors performed
over the kitchen stove.
They were all settled at Polly's one snowy evening, Mrs. Adams
sewing by the lamp, Polly, Jessie, and Alan curled up on the rug,
and the others in low chairs, when Aunt Jane came into the room,
looking like a funereal sort of spook in her long, shiny black
waterproof.
"What now, Jane?" inquired her sister, glancing up from her work.
"Mothers' Meeting," responded Aunt Jane, disdainfully eying the
home-like group before her.
"Oh, Jane, I wouldn't take that long walk on such a stormy night,"
urged Mrs.
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