“They’re a London importation.”

“London importation, my eye!” exclaimed Frank.  “Why, Cohen’s Emporium, on Main street, has the same thing in the window marked thirteen ninety-eight—­regular fourteen dollars.”

“Oh, I say now!  Quit your spoofing!”

“Give us some candy, Sis!” begged Will.  “Come on, now, I know you’ve got it!”

“I had it, we have it—­they had it—­thou hast it—­not!” quoted Grace, with a laugh.  “Nothing doing this time, little brother of mine.”

“And you ate all those chocolates?” This in semi-horrified tones.

“We—­not I,” corrected his sister.

Percy Falconer, after vainly trying to get in place to walk beside Betty, who frustrated him by keeping Amy close to her, drifted off to find new sartorial worlds to conquer.

The others walked on, the boys joining in the talk and laughter.  Amy seemed to have recovered her spirits, and the girls made no reference to the little tragedy which they knew would soon become public property.

“So you are really determined to go off on that walking trip?” asked Will, who had floated back to join Mollie.

“We certainly are.  Why, don’t you think we can do it?”

“Perhaps.  But I think you’ll run at the sight of the first tramp—­or cow; and as for a storm—­good night!”

“Thank you—­for nothing!” and Mollie’s dark eyes had little of fun in them as they looked into those of Will Ford.

Eventually Will and Frank left them, and the girls continued on until they reached Mollie’s house.

“Come in,” she invited.  “I know they baked to-day, and we’ll have a cup of tea and some cake.  It will refresh us.”

“I ought to be going—­home,” said Amy, with a little hesitating pause at the word “home.”

“Oh, do come in!” begged the French girl.

As they entered the yard the twins, hand in hand and solemn-eyed, came down the walk to meet them.

“Oh, the dears!” gushed Grace.

“Isn’t she too sweet,” whispered Betty, as she caught up Dodo.

“And in need of soap and water, as usual,” commented Mollie, drily.  “But Nanette can do nothing with them.  They are clean one minute—­voila! like little Arabs the next!  What would you have?” and she threw herself into a tragic gesture, in imitation of the imported French maid, at which her chums laughed.

“Have you a kiss for me, Paul?” demanded Grace, of the little fellow, when she had replaced his sister on the walk.

“Dot any tandy?” came the diplomatic inquiry.

“Listen to the mercenary little wretch!” cried his older sister.  “Paul, ma cherie, where are your manners?”

“Has oo dot any tandy?” came in inflexible accents.

“I might find—­just a morsel—­if you’d kiss me first,” stipulated Grace.

“Tandy fust,” was the imperturbable retort.  “I like tandy—­Dodo like tandy—­we bofe like tandy!”