" Even more than her sisters, she had
inherited her father's love of books, and a new book was an event at
the parsonage. "Oh," she cried again, taking off the paper and
disclosing the pretty tartan cover within, "O Paul! It's 'Penelope's
Progress.' Don't you remember those bits we read in those odd
magazines Josie lent us? And how we wanted to read it all?"
Pauline nodded. "I reckon mother told father about it; I saw her
following him out to the gig yesterday morning."
They went around to the little porch leading from Hilary's room, always
a pleasant spot in the afternoons.
"Why," Patience exclaimed, "it's like an out-door parlor, isn't it?"
There was a big braided mat on the floor of the porch, its colors
rather faded by time and use, but looking none the worse for that, a
couple of rockers, a low stool, and a small table, covered with a bit
of bright cretonne. On it stood a blue and white pitcher filled with
field flowers, beside it lay one or two magazines. Just outside,
extending from one of the porch posts to the limb of an old cherry
tree, hung Hilary's hammock, gay with cushions.
"Shirley did it yesterday afternoon," Hilary explained. "She was over
here a good while.
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