“Another picnic for to-day, I suppose,” she said to herself.  “Cynthia may just as well learn first as last that we cannot afford to let her go to such junketings often.”

But Mr. Dean broke in upon her thoughts by saying, blandly:  “Good morning, madam.  Will you kindly tell me where to find Mr. Mason?”

“He’s in the south meadow,” she answered, civilly, pointing in that direction.  “I see you’ve not brought Cynthia home, Mr. Dean.  I need her badly.  Mrs. Dean promised to send her home early.”

“Mrs. Dean will call on you herself in the course of the day; and it is about Cynthia that I wish to consult her father, my good lady,” said Mr. Dean, lifting his hat, as if to a queen, as he drove toward the meadow.

“Well! well! well!” said Aunt Kate, feeling rather resentful, but on the whole rather pleased with the “good lady” and the courteously lifted hat.  A charming manner is a wonderful magician in the way of scattering sunshine.

The boarders, observing the little scene from the side porch, hoped that Cynthia’s outing was to be prolonged.  One and all liked the handy, obliging little maiden who had so much womanly work to do and so scanty a time for childish play.

When, however, at noon, Mr. Mason came home, holding his head up proudly and looking five years younger, and told how brave Cynthia had been; when neighbor after neighbor, as the news flew over the place, stopped to congratulate the Masons on the possession of such a little heroine—­Miss Mason was at first puzzled, then triumphant.

“You see what there is in bringing up,” she averred.  “I’ve never spoiled Cynthy:  I’ve trained her to be thoughtful and quick, and this is the result.”

When Mrs. Dean first proposed that Cynthia should spend the rest of the summer at Fernbrake, sharing the lessons and play with her own girls, Aunt Kate opposed the idea.  She did not know how one pair of hands and feet was to do all that was to be done in that house.  Was she to send the boarders away, or how did her brother think she could get along.

Mr. Mason said he could afford to hire help for his sister if she wished it, and in any event he meant that Cynthia after this should go to school and study; for “thanks to her and to God”—­he spoke reverently—­“the mortgage was paid.”  Mr. Dean had taken that burden away because of Florrie’s life which Cynthia had saved.

Under the new conditions Cynthia grew very lovely in face as well as in disposition.  It came to pass that she spent fully half her time with the Deans; had all the books to read that she wanted, and saw her father and Aunt Kate so happy that she forgot the old days of worry and care, when she had sometimes felt lonely, and thought that they were cross.  Half the crossness in the world comes from sorrow and anxiety, and so children should bear with tired grown people patiently.

As for Lulu, she never ceased to be glad that her mamma’s terror of malaria had obliged her to carry a great shawl to Effie’s lawn party.  Privately, too, she was glad that the shawl was so scorched that she never was asked to wear it anywhere again.