"Just beans!" said Florence scornfully. "You can't make beads out of _them!_"

"Can't I?" said Winona, "Well, if you don't like them when they're done, I'll buy you a string of any kind of colored ones that you want."

"Thank you," said Florence, settling down to watch her sister.

The first thing Winona did was to pierce each of the beans lengthwise with a steel knitting-needle, which she heated in the alcohol lamp's flame. This was the longest part of the work. Next she strung them all on a long piece of cord. Then while Florence held one end of the cord and she the other, Winona dashed each bead in turn with touches of color, one after another-rose, blue, green and violet. She finished them with little flecks of gold paint, and fastened one end to the chandelier, where the beads could swing free and dry soon. The girls got luncheon while the beads were drying.

After luncheon was eaten and cleared away the girls went to work on their beads again. Florence held the string while Winona went over them with sh.e.l.lac.

"I think we'd better put them outdoors this time," she decided. "The smell of the sh.e.l.lac may worry mother."

So they swung the beads from the hammock rope.

"Do you think you will want to wear them?" she asked Florence, as she came back and began to clear away the paint-spotted newspapers.

"I should just think I would!" said Florence enthusiastically. "Why, they look just like the ones in the Wampoag stores, only lots prettier."

"Who told you how to make them, Winnie?" asked her mother. "They are certainly lovely."

"n.o.body," said Winona. "I saw some like them, and thought I could do it-that's all."

"I think you ought to get a real honor-bead for that," said Florence.

"I'm going to put down everything you do that I think might get honors for you."

"I'll keep track, too," said Mrs. Merriam. "That's a good idea, Florence. Then perhaps Winona's having to leave the Camp won't be such a setback. Give me a pencil, dear, and that little black notebook by it."

They wrote down the making of the beads.

"We must keep watch, you and I, Florence," Mrs. Merriam said.

Winona looked radiant.

"I'm going to write to Camp now, mother," she said, "and I'll ask Mrs.

Bryan about counting things like this. It would be lovely if I got on as fast here as there-but I don't believe it's possible."

"Wait and see," said Mrs. Merriam.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Of course, things didn't always go smoothly, even with Winona's young energy and good-will hard at work. "Accidents will happen in the best regulated families" was a proverb whose meaning Winona learned thoroughly before she was through. There was, for instance, a tragic Sat.u.r.day when she made ice-cream with most of the ice in the ice-box, and forgot to telephone for more. A sizzlingly hot Sunday dawned, with no ice to be had. So the Sunday chicken and lettuce were badly spoiled, not to mention various tempers. Winona, tired, hot, and with a consciousness of guilt, spent most of Sunday afternoon in the kitchen trying crossly to invent a Sunday night supper which did not need milk, eggs or salad. The day ended with a found-at-the-last-minute meal of potted tongue and canned peaches, and a general forgiveness all round, but it was a long time after that before Winona forgot it; indeed, she was known to get out of bed to take final peeps at the ice-chest and make sure it was filled.

Nevertheless, and in spite of all the mishaps that are bound to worry housekeepers, a light heart, a strong body and the fixed intention to make the best of things carried Winona triumphantly past her worries.

Presently she found that things were settling into a regular routine, and that housekeeping was more interesting than hard. Best of all, she found she had a great deal of time to herself.

Then Tom came home. The Scouts had had to break up earlier than they expected, for two or three reasons. One was that Mr. Gedney had to get back to his business, another was that several of the boys worked, and had to get back, too. So Tom descended on his family, and Billy appeared next door. And things began to happen.

Tom tried faithfully not to be any trouble, and succeeded pretty well.

And Mrs. Merriam's ankle got better, slowly, as bad sprains do.

Presently she was well enough to be taken in a wheel chair to see her friends. She usually went to spend the day.

One day everything seemed particularly calm and serene. Tom had wheeled the mother to the other end of town, early in the morning, and she was going to be taken for a long automobile ride by one of her friends. Tom had taken a pocketful of sandwiches, and gone off for a fishing-trip. So Winona built a mound of more sandwiches for herself and Florence, and prepared to take a day off.

She was curled up on the front porch in a hammock, reading, when the first thing occurred.

"Does Miss Winona Merriam live here?" inquired a familiar voice; and Winona, looking up, saw Louise, dusty and beaming.

"Oh, Louise, you angel! How lovely it is to see you!" she said, jumping up and hugging her friend.

"Yes, isn't it?" said Louise, hugging back. "I came down on the train, and I'm here to spend the day, if you want me."

"Want you! I should think I did!" said Winona. "Come in and get cool."

"I'm not hot," said Louise, "but I _would_ like a drink of water."

They were in the kitchen, fussing about pleasurably together, when they heard steps clattering up the porch.

"It's the ice-man," said Winona. "I must pay him."

She ran upstairs, and Louise went on helping herself to sandwiches. She had eaten three, and was considering whether she really wanted anything more till lunch-time, when a large, fishy hand dropped over her shoulder and took a handful of ham-and-lettuce ones.

"Tom Merriam! There won't be enough for lunch if we both eat them! I thought you'd gone off fishing for the day."

"So did I," said Tom leisurely, "but I found I hadn't. Where did you blow in from?"

"Camp," she said. "Winona's upstairs hunting for change. She thought you walked like the ice-man."

"Poor Win! She has that ice-man on her mind," said Tom. "Nay, nay, little one. For far other reason am I here."

He struck an att.i.tude, with the sandwich he hadn't finished waving over his head.

"Got hungry?" asked Louise prosaically.

"Not at all," said Tom. "It was this way. As I was purchasing bait, I met my father."

"Well-did he send you home?"

"Not exactly. Only-there's a convention in town. A ministers'

convention. And father's met two long-lost college chums, which-or who-are coming here to dinner to-night. One has a wife. Better tell Winona, and have Clay put on some extra plates. And-I forgot-here's a fish I caught before I used up my bait and met father. Have him boiled or something for dinner with some of that stuff like mayonnaise dressing with green things in."

"Your father?" asked Louise frivolously.

"No, the fish!"

Tom rushed upstairs to change his clothes, while Louise thoughtfully ate another sandwich and called Winona.