“Amy Raeburn!” exclaimed Laura, admiringly, “I expect you’ll write a book one of these days.”

“I certainly intend to,” replied Amy, with dignity, handing down a fat Dutch cream-jug, and at the moment incautiously jarring the step-ladder, so that, cream-jug and all, she fell to the floor.  Fortunately the precious pitcher escaped injury; but Amy’s sleeve caught on a nail, and as she jerked it away in her fall it loosened a shelf and down crashed a whole pile of the second-best dinner plates, making a terrific noise, which startled the whole house.

Papa, in his study, groaned, and probably tore in two a closely written sheet of notes.  Mamma and the girls came flying in.  Amy picked herself up from the floor; there was a great red bruise and a scratch on her arm.

“Oh, you poor child!” said mother, gauging the extent of the accident with a rapid glance.  “Never mind,” she said, relieved; “there isn’t much harm done.  Those are the plates the Ladies’ Aid Society in Archertown gave me the year Frances was born.  I never admired them.  When some things go they carry a little piece of my heart with them, but I don’t mind losing donation china.  Are you hurt, Amy?”

“A bruise and a scratch—­nothing to signify.  Here comes Lole with the arnica.  I don’t care in the least since I haven’t wrecked any of our Colonial heirlooms.  Isn’t it fortunate, mother, that we haven’t broken or lost anything this congregation has bestowed?”

“Yes, indeed,” said mamma, gravely.  “There, gather up the pieces, and get them out of the way before we have a caller.”

In the Manse callers may be looked for at every possible time and season, and some of them have eyes in the backs of their heads.  For instance, Miss Florence Frick or Mrs. Elbridge Geary seems to be able to see through closed doors.  And there is Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes, who thinks us all so extravagant, and does not hesitate to notice how often we wear our best gowns, and wonders to our faces where mamma’s last winter’s new furs came from, and is very much astonished and quite angry that papa should insist on sending all his boys to college.  But, there, this story isn’t going to be a talk about papa’s people.  Mamma wouldn’t approve of that, I am sure.

Everybody sat down comfortably in the dining-room, while Frances and Mildred took hold and helped Amy and Laura finish the closet.  Everybody meant mamma, Mildred, Frances, Elbert, Lawrence, Sammy and Jessie.  Somehow, a downright rainy day in autumn, with a bit of a blaze on the hearth, makes you feel like dropping into talk and staying in one place, and discussing eventful things, such as Grace Wainwright’s return, and what her effect would be on her family, and what effect they would have on her.

“I really do not think Grace is in the very least bit prepared for the life she is coming to,” said Frances.

“No,” said mamma, “I fear not.  But she is coming to her duty, and one can always do that.”