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“I’ll tell you a secret,” said Summer, giggling. “No, you must not listen, Iris. You are too young.” She whispered into Plum Blossom’s ear. Suddenly the latter thrust out her little, plump hands.

“Go away. You are not good girl. Only my brother should write you love-letters!”

Plaintively Summer made a gesture of annoyance.

“I must spend a lifetime with Gozo,” said she. “Therefore, is it not better to have a little fun first of all?”

Iris cried out something in a very jeering voice. Summer pretended she did not hear.

“What is that?” cried her sister, excitedly.

“Oh, I know who wrote Summer’s love-letters to her.”

“Who did?”

“She wrote them herself.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I did not!”

“You did, for your cousin told me so.”

“Oh, the wicked little fiend!”

“Young ladies,” called a maid from below. “Come, come; come quickly. Your father is seen. The jinrikishas! Hurry! Your honorable grandmother wishes you to be at the door to welcome him!”

In a panic the little girls rushed about the room, gathering up their various articles. Then, grasping each other’s sleeves, they tripped down the stairs.