“The business section” of the town, Tom called it, and quite failed to notice Tracy’s lament that he had not brought his opera glasses with him.  “Really, you know,” Tracy explained to his companions, “I should have liked awfully to see it.  I’m mighty interested in business sections.”

“Cut that out,” his brother Bob commanded, “the chap up in front is getting ready to hold forth again.”

They were simple enough, those anecdotes, that “the chap up in front” told them; but in the telling, the boy’s voice lost again all touch of mock gravity.  His listeners, sitting there in the June sunshine, looking out across the old green, flecked with the waving tree shadows, and bright with the buttercups nodding here and there, seemed to see those men and boys drilling there in the far-off summer twilights; to hear the sharp words of command; the sound of fife and drum.  And the familiar names mentioned more than once, well-known village names, names belonging to their own families in some instances, served to deepen the impression.

“Why,” Edna Ray said slowly, “they’re like the things one learns at school; somehow, they make one realize that there truly was a Revolutionary War.  Wherever did you pick up such a lot of town history, Tom?”

“That’s telling,” Tom answered.

Back up the broad, main street they went, past the pleasant village houses, with their bright, well-kept dooryards, under the wide-spreading trees beneath which so many generations of young folks had come and gone; past the square, white parsonage, with its setting of green lawn; past the old stone church, and on out into the by-roads of the village, catching now and then a glimpse of the great lake beyond; and now and then, down some lane, a bit of the street they had left.  They saw it all with eyes that for once had lost the indifference of long familiarity, and were swift to catch instead its quiet, restful beauty, helped in this, perhaps, by Shirley’s very real admiration.

The ride ended at Dr. Brice’s gate, and here Tom dropped his mantle of authority, handing all further responsibility as to the entertainment of the party over to his sister.

Hilary was carried off to rest until supper time, and the rest scattered about the garden, a veritable rose garden on that June afternoon, roses being Dr. Brice’s pet hobby.

“It must be lovely to live in the country,” Shirley said, dropping down on the grass before the doctor’s favorite La France, and laying her face against the soft, pink petals of a half-blown bud.

Edna eyed her curiously.  She had rather resented the admittance of this city girl into their set.  Shirley’s skirt and blouse were of white linen, there was a knot of red under the broad sailor collar, she was hatless and the dark hair,—­never kept too closely within bounds—­was tossed and blown; there was certainly nothing especially cityfied in either appearance or manner.