“Why, ’tis Sally Tracy,” cried Betty.  “I did not know she had returned from her visit to Lebanon.”  And she ran rapidly along the hall, and opening the door, embraced her friend with all a girl’s enthusiasm.

“Welcome, Sally,” said Pamela, as the pair came hand in hand towards her, “Betty has been moping ever since you left, and had a desperate fit of industry from sheer loneliness.  I really believe she has made a stocking and a half for Moppet—­or was it a pair, Betty?”

“The second pair, if you please,” retorted Betty, rejoiced to see Pamela smile, even if at her own expense; “and Miss Bidwell says they are every bit as fine as yours.”

“They may well be that,” said Pamela, whose pet detestation was the manufacture of woolen stockings (then considered one of the component parts of a girl’s education in New England).  “But Sally is such a marvelous knitter that she will no doubt rejoice at your success.  Had you as severe weather in Lebanon as this?  I am fearful that we will have a hard winter, the cold has set in so early.”

“They have had one flurry of snow already,” Sally answered, “but not so much wind as we of Litchfield rejoice in.  But I had a merry visit and saw much company.  Dolly bemoaned daily that you could not come, Pamela.”

“I am to go later, after or about the day set apart for Thanksgiving.  But you and Betty have much to say to each other, and I will not interrupt you; Miss Bidwell has something for me to do, I’ll warrant; so, farewell for the present, Sally.”  And Pamela left the room.

“Come, sit beside me on the settle,” said Betty, putting Sally in the warmest seat.  “Your fingers are cold, and the room is not yet sufficiently warm.  Well,”—­with a significant smile,—­“what have you to tell me?”

“Not what you think,” with a smiling nod, “for Francis Plunkett is far too pressing for my taste,’’ answered Sally.

“Ha, ha,” quoth Betty, much amused, “is that the way you take it?  Then I foresee that Francis will win for his much speaking.”

“Indeed he will not; I teased him well the last evening, and he dare not resume the subject for a while at least.”

“Then there is some one else,” said Betty.  “Can it be that Oliver”—­

“Oh, no,” cried Sally hastily; “Oliver has not such an idea, believe me, Betty.”

“How can you answer for him?” retorted Betty, laughing.  “But your tone answers for yourself, so I must guess again.  I think I have heard something of a handsome young lawyer from Branford”—­

“Fie!” cried Sally, in her turn averting her face quickly, but not before Betty had perceived her heightened color, “I have but met him three times, and there are plenty of other personable men as well as he, for while one stops with Dolly the officers from Fort Trumbull are ever coming and going, you know.”

“Ah, Sally, you are growing giddy, I fear,” continued Betty with comical pretense of solemnity.  “I think it behooves me to caution you.”