The Warden house was more impressive in appearance than its neighbors. It had “grounds,” instead of a yard or garden; it had wide pillared porches and “galleries,” showing southern antecedents; moreover, it had a cupola, giving date to the building, and proof of the continuing ambitions of the builders.

The stately mansion was covered with heavy flowering vines, also with heavy mortgages. Mrs. Roscoe Warden and her four daughters reposed peacefully under the vines, while Roscoe Warden, Jr., struggled desperately under the mortgages.

A slender, languid lady was Mrs. Warden, wearing her thin but still brown hair in “water-waves” over a pale high forehead. She was sitting on a couch on the broad, rose-shaded porch, surrounded by billowing masses of vari-colored worsted. It was her delight to purchase skein on skein of soft, bright-hued wool, cut it all up into short lengths, tie them together again in contrasting colors, and then crochet this hashed rainbow into afghans of startling aspect. California does not call for afghans to any great extent, but “they make such acceptable presents,” Mrs. Warden declared, to those who questioned the purpose of her work; and she continued to send them off, on Christmases, birthdays, and minor weddings, in a stream of pillowy bundles. As they were accepted, they must have been acceptable, and the stream flowed on.

Around her, among the gay blossoms and gayer wools, sat her four daughters, variously intent. The mother, a poetic soul, had named them musically and with dulcet rhymes: Madeline and Adeline were the two eldest, Coraline and Doraline the two youngest. It had not occurred to her until too late that those melodious terminations made it impossible to call one daughter without calling two, and that “Lina” called them all.

“Mis' Immerjin,” said a soft voice in the doorway, “dere pos'tively ain't no butter in de house fer supper.”

“No butter?” said Mrs. Warden, incredulously. “Why, Sukey, I'm sure we had a tub sent up last—last Tuesday!”

“A week ago Tuesday, more likely, mother,” suggested Dora.

“Nonsense, Dora! It was this week, wasn't it, girls?” The mother appealed to them quite earnestly, as if the date of that tub's delivery would furnish forth the supper-table; but none of the young ladies save Dora had even a contradiction to offer.

“You know I never notice things,” said the artistic Cora; and “the de-lines,” as their younger sisters called them, said nothing.

“I might borrow some o' Mis' Bell?” suggested Sukey; “dat's nearer 'n' de sto'.”

“Yes, do, Sukey,” her mistress agreed. “It is so hot. But what have you done with that tubful?”

“Why, some I tuk back to Mis' Bell for what I borrered befo'—I'm always most careful to make return for what I borrers—and yo' know, Mis' Warden, dat waffles and sweet potaters and cohn bread dey do take butter; to say nothin' o' them little cakes you all likes so well—an'' de fried chicken, an''—”

“Never mind, Sukey; you go and present my compliments to Mrs. Bell, and ask her for some; and be sure you return it promptly. Now, girls, don't let me forget to tell Ross to send up another tub.”

“We can't seem to remember any better than you can, mother,” said Adeline, dreamily. “Those details are so utterly uninteresting.”

“I should think it was Sukey's business to tell him,” said Madeline with decision; while the “a-lines” kept silence this time.

“There! Sukey's gone!” Mrs. Warden suddenly remarked, watching the stout figure moving heavily away under the pepper trees. “And I meant to have asked her to make me a glass of shrub! Dora, dear, you run and get it for mother.”

Dora laid down her work, not too regretfully, and started off.

“That child is the most practical of any of you,” said her mother; which statement was tacitly accepted. It was not extravagant praise.

Dora poked about in the refrigerator for a bit of ice. She had no idea of the high cost of ice in that region—it came from “the store,” like all their provisions. It did not occur to her that fish and milk and melons made a poor combination in flavor; or that the clammy, sub-offensive smell was not the natural and necessary odor of refrigerators. Neither did she think that a sunny corner of the back porch near the chimney, though convenient, was an ill-selected spot for a refrigerator. She couldn't find the ice-pick, so put a big piece of ice in a towel and broke it on the edge of the sink; replaced the largest fragment, used what she wanted, and left the rest to filter slowly down through a mass of grease and tea-leaves; found the raspberry vinegar, and made a very satisfactory beverage which her mother received with grateful affection.

“Thank you, my darling,” she said. “I wish you'd made a pitcherful.”

“Why didn't you, Do?” her sisters demanded.

“You're too late,” said Dora, hunting for her needle

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