"What's the matter?" she said, in alarm, for Marjorie's face was anything but smiling.

For answer, Midget pointed out of the window, toward which Kitty turned for the first time.

"Oh!" said she, dropping back on the edge of the bed.

And, indeed, there seemed to be nothing else to say. Both girls were so overwhelmed with disappointment that they could only look at each other with despondent faces.

Silently they began to draw on their stockings and shoes, and though determined they wouldn't do anything so babyish as to cry, yet it was no easy matter to keep the tears back.

"Up yet, chickabiddies?" called Mr. Maynard's cheery voice through the closed door.

"Yes, sir," responded two doleful voices.

"Then skip along downstairs as soon as you're ready; it's a lovely day for our picnic."

Midge and Kitty looked at each other. This seemed a heartless jest indeed! And it wasn't a bit like their father to tease them when they were in trouble. And real trouble this surely was!

They heard Mr. Maynard tap at King's door, and call out some gay greeting to him, and then they heard King splashing about, as if making his toilet in a great hurry. All this spurred the girls to dress more quickly, and it was not long before they were tying each other's hair-ribbons and b.u.t.toning each other's frocks.

Then they fairly ran downstairs, and, seeing Mr. Maynard standing by the dining-room window, they both threw themselves into his arms, crying out, "Oh, Father, isn't it _too_ bad?"

"What?" asked Mr. Maynard, quizzically.

"Now, Daddy," said Midget, "don't tease. Our hearts are all broken because it's raining, and we can't have our picnic."

"Can't have our picnic!" exclaimed Mr. Maynard, in apparent excitement.

"Can't have our picnic, indeed! Who says we can't?"

"I say so!" exclaimed Kingdon, who had just entered the room. "n.o.body but ducks can have a picnic to-day."

"Oh, well," said Mr. Maynard, looking crestfallen, "if King says so that settles it. _I_ think it's a beautiful picnic day, but far be it from me to obtrude my own opinions."

Just here Mrs. Maynard and Rosy Posy came in. They were both smiling, and though no one expected the baby to take the disappointment very seriously, yet it did seem as if Mother might have been more sympathetic.

"I suppose we can eat the ice-cream in the house," said Marjorie, who was inclined to look on the bright side if she could possibly find one.

"That's the way to talk!" said her father, approvingly. "Now you try, Kingdon, to meet the situation as it should be met."

"I will, sir. I'm just as disappointed as I can be, but I suppose there's no use crying over spilt milk,--I mean spilt raindrops."

"That's good philosophy, my boy. Now, Kitty, what have you to say by way of cheering us all up?"

"I can't see much fun in a day like this. But I hope we can have the picnic on the next Ourday."

"That's a brave, cheerful spirit. Now, my sad and disheartened crew, take your seats at the breakfast table, and listen to your foolishly optimistic old father."

The children half-heartedly took their places, but seemed to have no thought of eating breakfast.

"Wowly-wow-wow!" said Mr. Maynard, looking around the table. "_What_ a set of blue faces! Would it brighten you up any if I should prophesy that at dinner-time to-night you will all say it has been the best Ourday we've ever had, and that you're glad it rained?"

"Oh, Father!" said Marjorie, in a tone of wondering reproach, while Kitty and King looked blankly incredulous, and Mrs. Maynard smiled mysteriously.

CHAPTER IV

AN OURDAY

It was impossible to resist the infection of Mr. Maynard's gay good-nature, and by the time breakfast was over, the children were in their usual merry mood. Though an occasional glance out of the window brought a shadow to one face or another, it was quickly dispelled by the laughter and gaiety within.

Marjorie was perhaps the most disappointed of them all, for it was her day, and she had set her heart on the picnic in the woods. But she tried to make the best of it, remembering that, after all, father would be at home all day, and that was a treat of itself.

After breakfast, Mr. Maynard led the way to the living-room, followed by his half-hopeful brood. They all felt that something would be done to make up for their lost pleasure, but it didn't seem as if it could be anything very nice.

Mr. Maynard looked out of the front window in silence for a moment, then suddenly he turned and faced the children.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said; "do any of you know the story of Mahomet and the mountain?"

"No, sir," was the answer of every one, and Marjorie's spirits sank. She liked to hear her father tell stories sometimes, but it was a tame entertainment to take the place of a picnic, and Mahomet didn't sound like an interesting subject, anyway.

Mr. Maynard's eyes twinkled.

"This is the story," he began; "sit down while I tell it to you."

With a little sigh Marjorie sat down on the sofa, and the others followed her example. Rosy Posy, hugging Boffin, scrambled up into a big armchair, and settled herself to listen.

"It is an old story," went on Mr. Maynard, "and the point of it is that if the mountain wouldn't come to Mahomet, Mahomet must needs go to the mountain. But to-day I propose to reverse the story, and since you four sad, forlorn-looking Mahomets can't go to the picnic, why then, the picnic must come to you. And here it is!"

As Mr. Maynard spoke--indeed he timed his words purposely--their own carriage drove up to the front door, and, flying to the window, Marjorie saw some children getting out of it. Though bundled up in raincoats and caps, she soon recognized Gladys and d.i.c.k Fulton and Dorothy Adams.

In a moment they all met in the hall, and the laughter and shouting effectually banished the last trace of disappointment from the young Maynards' faces.

"Did you come for the picnic?" said Marjorie to Gladys, in amazement.

"Yes; your father telephoned early this morning,--before breakfast,--and he said the picnic would be in the house instead of in the woods. And he sent the carriage for us all."

"Great! Isn't it?" said d.i.c.k Fulton, as he helped his sister off with her mackintosh. "I thought there'd be no picnic, but here we are."

"Here we are, indeed!" said Mr. Maynard, who was helping Dorothy Adams unwind an entangling veil, "and everybody as dry as a bone."

"Yes," said Dorothy, "the storm is awful, but in your close carriage, and with all these wraps, I couldn't get wet."

"Oh, isn't it fun!" cried Kitty, as she threw her arms around her dear friend, Dorothy. "Are you to stay all day?"

"Yes, until six o'clock. Mr. Maynard says picnics always last until sundown."

Back they all trooped to the big living-room, which presented a cheerful aspect indeed. The rainy morning being chilly, an open fire in the ample fireplace threw out a cheerful blaze and warmth. Mrs. Maynard's pleasant face smiled brightly, as she welcomed each little guest, and afterward she excused herself, saying she had some household matters to attend to and that Mr. Maynard would take charge of the "picnic."