And up they did get, but it did require courage:  and the getting down was even worse—­their cheeks blazed and their hearts grew hot with anger, and oh! the irritation of their poor unhappy legs.

“Kitty,” whispered Betty eagerly, as they hurried into the house, “come upstairs, quick; I’ve thought of something.  It’s a splendid idea!”

With the excuse that they were going to take off their hats and coats, they rushed up to their bedroom and shut themselves in.  Aunt Pike was a little surprised at their neatness; Dan was a little hurt at being left so soon, but Betty could not think of that then.

“Kitty,” she breathed, as she closed the door and leaned against it, “I know what we will do.  We will wear our cotton stockings underneath these horrors!  They won’t scratch us then, will they?  And our holidays won’t be spoilt, and Aunt Pike won’t know, and—­don’t you think it’s a perfectly splendid idea?”

“Splendid,” cried Kitty enthusiastically, dropping on to the floor and beginning to unlace her boots that very moment.  “Oh, quickly let us make haste and change them; I cannot, cannot endure this torment a minute longer.  O Betty, why didn’t you think of it sooner?” Then, holding up one of the offending gray stockings between the tips of her fingers, “Did you—­did any one ever see anything in all this world so hideous?”

“We can do away with their itchiness, but we shall never, never be able to hide their ugliness,” said Betty ruefully. “Nothing could do that.”

But the ugliness did not seem to matter so much when the irritation was stopped; and they had such a grand time that evening, there was so much to tell, and hear, and do, and show, that all other things were forgotten, at least for the time.

And how lovely it was to wake in the morning and remember at once that the holidays had come, and Dan was home; and then to wander about the house and garden with him, looking up old haunts, and visiting Prue and Billy and Jabez in the stables; for Aunt Pike had allowed them that much licence on this the first day of the holidays.  Then after dinner they all went up to Dan’s room to help him to unpack, and there was no end of running backwards and forwards, looking at new treasures and old ones, and talking incessantly until the afternoon had nearly worn away without their realizing it.

“Um!” said Dan at last, pausing on the landing to hang over the banisters and sniff audibly.  “A—­ha! methinks I smell the soul-inspiring smell of saffron!  For thirteen long, weary weeks I have not smelt that glorious smell.  Oh yes, I have though, once.  There was a saffron cake in the hamper.  Fanny’s own, too.  Why,” with sudden recollection, “I haven’t had a good talk with Fanny yet.  Aunt Pike was about all the time, and dried up the words in my throat.  I’m going down to see her this very moment as ever is.”  And that moment he went.