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 school-time, too, and a flutter of little girls came frolicking out of Morrisby’s gate. In their white pinafores and large white sun-bonnets, they looked like a company of frilly daisies. As they flitted past the Hansens’, a whole tribe of little “Scandies” hurried out to join them. Many of these were boys, but boys and girls alike were serviceably clothed in what had evidently been portions of the same roll of thrifty dark-blue dungaree; and the ever-useful flour-bag had manifestly been under contribution for the little girls’ aprons. All the children, Morrisbys and Hansens both, went barefoot, and carried, slung over their shoulders, satchels of yellow leather, containing school-books and lunch—Millicent hoped the melon-jam was generously thick! Two more little boys and one little girl rode up behind her, all bestriding the same fat pony. Stirrups or saddle they had none, only a sheepskin flung across the pony’s back; but they seemed entirely at their ease and quite secure.

As she passed the chrysanthemum cottage, a neat young woman in a clean blouse and dark skirt came daintily down between the flowers; and she guessed, rightly enough, that it was the school-mistress. As she reached the cow-gate, Ken and his cart came rattling at a great pace out of it—he was late, of course; he might even be too late for Morrisby to accept the milk. A white dribble marked his course as he fled; he had not put on his can-covers straight.

Turning at the great pine to go in, Millicent had one last delightful vision. Down the road came a returning milk-cart, furiously driven by a young Scandinavian girl, perhaps fifteen years of age.