DEAR AUNT MARY:

It seems so strange how I’m just learning the pleasure of writing

letters. I enjoy it more every day. When I see a pen I can hardly keep

from feeling that I ought to write you directly. I think of you, then,

because I’m thinking of you most always. It seems as if I never

appreciated you before, Aunt Mary.

I want to tell you something that I know will make you happy. I’ve

never made you very happy Aunt Mary, but I’m going to begin now. I’ve

got a place where I can earn my own living, and I’m going to work just

as soon as I am strong enough. I’m as tickled as a baby over it. I’ll

lay you any odds I get to be a richer man than the other John Watkins.

I reckon money was bad for me, Aunt Mary, and I can see that you’ve

done just the right thing to make a man of me. That isn’t surprising,

because you always did do just the right thing, Aunt Mary; it was I

that always did just the wrong thing, but I’m straightened out now and

this time it’s forever—you just wait and see.

There’s one thing bothers me some, and that is I don’t get strong very

fast. They want me to take a tonic, but I don’t think a tonic would

help me much. I feel so sort of blue and depressed, and perhaps that’s

natural, for Bob’s away most of the time and I’m here all alone. It’s a

big house and sort of lonely and sometimes I find myself imagining how

it would seem to have someone from home in it with me, and I find

myself almost crying—I do, for a fact, Aunt Mary.

Next week, Bob is going to be away more than usual, and I’m dreading it

awfully; but never mind, Aunt Mary, I don’t want to make you blue,

because honestly I don’t think I’m going into a decline, even if the

doctor does. And, after all, if I did sort of dwindle away it wouldn’t

matter much, for I’m not worth anything, and no one knows that as well

as myself—except you, Aunt Mary. I must stop because it’s nine o’clock

and time I was in bed. I’ve got some socks to wash out first, too; you

see, I’m learning how to economize just as fast as I can. It’s only two

miles to my work, and I’m going to walk back and forth always—that’ll

be between fifty cents and a dollar saved each week. I’m figuring on

how to live on my salary and never have a debt, and you’ll be proud of

me yet, Aunt Mary—if I don’t die first.

Think of me all alone here next week. If I wasn’t steadfast as a rock I

believe I’d do something foolish just to get out of myself. But never

mind, Aunt Mary, it’s all right.

Your afft. nephew,

JOHN WATKINS, JR., DENHAM.

When Lucinda returned from drying her feet, Aunt Mary had her

handkerchief in one hand and spectacles in the other.

“Saints and sinners!” cried the maid, in a voice that grated with

sympathy. “He ain’t writ to say he’s dead, is he?”

“No,” said Aunt Mary; “but he isn’t as well as he makes out. There’s no

deceivin’ me, Lucinda!”

“Dear! dear!” cried the Trusty and True; “is that so? What’s to be

done? Do you want Joshua to run anywhere?”

Aunt Mary suddenly regained her composure.

“Run anywhere?” she asked, with her usual bitter intonation. “If you

ain’t the greatest fool I ever was called upon to bed and board,

Lucinda! Will you kindly explain to me how settin’ Joshua trottin’ is

goin’ to do any mortal good to my poor boy away off there in that

dreadful city?”

“He could telegraph to Miss Arethusa,” Lucinda suggested. The

suggestion bespoke the superior moral quality of Lucinda’s make-up—her

own feeling toward Arethusa being considered.

“I don’t want her,” said Aunt Mary with a positiveness that was final.

“I don’t want her. My heavens, Lucinda, ain’t we just had enough of

her? Anyhow, if you ain’t, I have. I don’t want her, nor no livin’ soul

except my trunk; an’ I want that just as quick as Joshua can haul it

down out of the attic.”

“You ain’t thinkin’ of goin’ travelin’!” the maid cried in

consternation; “you can’t never be thinkin’ of _that?_”

“No,” said her mistress with fine irony; “I want the trunk to make a

pie out of, probably.”

Lucinda was speechless.

“Lucinda,” her mistress said, after a few seconds had faded away

unimproved, “seems to me I mentioned wantin’ Joshua to get down a

trunk—seems to me I did.”

The maid turned and left the room. She felt more or less dazed. Nothing

so startling as Aunt Mary’s wanting a trunk had happened in years.

Disinheriting Jack was not in it by comparison. She went slowly away to

find Joshua and found him in the farther end of the rear woodhouse—John

Watkins, like several of his ilk, having marked each forward step in

the world by a back extension of his house.

Joshua was chopping wood; his ax was high in the air. He also was calm

and unsuspecting.

“She’s goin’ to the city all alone!” Lucinda’s voice suddenly

proclaimed behind him.

The ax fell.

“Who says so?” its handler demanded, facing about in surprise.

“She says so.”

Joshua picked up the ax and poised it afresh. He was himself again.

“She’ll go then,” he said calmly.

Lucinda marched around in front of him, and planted herself firmly

among the chips.

“Joshua Whittlesey!”

“We can’t help it,” said Joshua stolidly. “We’re here to mind her. If

she wants to go to New York, or to change her will, all we’ve got to do

is to be simple witnesses.”

“She don’t want Miss Arethusa telegraphed,” said Lucinda.

“I don’t blame her,” said Joshua; “if I was her and if I was goin’ to

New York I wouldn’t want no one telegraphed.”

“She wants her trunk out of the attic.”

“Then she’ll get her trunk out of the attic. When does she want it?”

“She wants it now.”

[Illustration: “She’s goin’ to the city all alone!’ Lucinda’s voice

suddenly proclaimed behind him.”]

“Then she’ll get it now,” said Joshua. From the general trend of this

and other remarks of Joshua the reader will readily divine why he had

been in Aunt Mary’s employ for thirty years, and had always been

characterized by her as “a most sensible man,” and anyone who had seen

the alacrity with which the trunk was brought and the respectful

attention with which Aunt Mary’s further commands were received would

have been forced to coincide in her opinion.

The packing of the trunk was a task which fell to Lucinda’s lot and was

performed under the eagle eye of her mistress. Aunt Mary’s ideas of

what she would require were delightfully unsophisticated and brought up

short on the farther-side of her tooth brush and her rubbers.

Nevertheless she agreed in Lucinda’s suggestions as to more extensive

supplies.

Late that afternoon Joshua drove into town (amidst a wealth of mud

spatters) and dispatched the answer to Jack’s letter. Aunt Mary was

urged to haste by several considerations, some well defined, and others

not so much so. To Lucinda she imparted her terrible anxiety over the

dear boy’s health, but not even to herself did she admit her much more

terrible anxiety lest Arethusa or Mary should suddenly appear and

insist on accompanying her. She wanted to go, but she wanted to go

alone.

Jack telegraphed a response that night, and his aunt left by the Monday

morning train. She had a six o’clock breakfast, and drove into town at

a quarter of nine so as to be absolutely certain not to miss the train.

Joshua drove, with the trunk perched beside him. It was a small and

unassuming trunk, but Aunt Mary was not one who believed in putting on

airs just because she was rich. Lucinda sat on the back seat with her

mistress.

“I’m sure I hope you’ll enjoy yourself,” she said.

“Of course he’s nothing but a boy,” Aunt Mary replied,—“an’ I’ve told

you a hundred times that boys will be boys and we mustn’t expect

otherwise.”

They arrived on time, and only had an hour and three-quarters to wait

in the station. Toward the last Aunt Mary grew very nervous for fear

something had happened to the train; but it came to time according to

the waiting-room clock. Joshua put her aboard, and she soon had nothing

left to worry over except the wonder as to whether Jack would be on

hand to meet her or not.

Joshua drove back home, let Lucinda out at the door, and put the horse

up before going in to where she sat in solitary glory.

“I wonder what _he’s_ up to?” she said with a pleasant sense of

unlimited freedom as to the subject and duration of the conversation.

“Suthin’, of course,” was the answer.

“Do you s’pose he’s really sick?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you s’pose she thinks he’s really sick?”

“Mebbe.”

“Ain’t you goin’ to sit down, Joshua?”

“I don’t see nothin’ to make me sit down here for.”

“What do you think of her going?” she said, as he walked toward the

door.

“I think she’ll have a good time.”

“At her age?”

“Havin’ a good time ain’t a matter o’ age,” said Joshua. “It’s a matter

o’ bein’ willin’ to have a good time.”

Lucinda screwed her face up mightily.

“If I was sure she’d be gone for a week,” she said, “I’d go a-visitin’

myself.”

“She’ll be gone a week,” said Joshua; and the manner and matter of his

speech were both those of a prophet.

Then he went out and the door slammed to behind him.

Chapter Thirteen

Aunt Mary Entrapped

Aunt Mary’s arrival in the city just coincided with the arrival of that

day’s five o’clock. Five o’clock in early June is very bright daylight,

therefore she was rather bewildered when the train pulled up in the

darkness and electricity of the station’s confusion. The change from

sunlight to smoke blinded her somewhat and the view from the car window

did not restore her equanimity. When the porter, to whom she had been

discreetly recommended by Joshua, came for her bags, she felt woefully

distressed and not at all like her usual self.

“Oh, do I have to get out?” she said. “I ain’t been in this place for

twenty-five years, and I was to be met.”

The porter’s grin hovered comfortingly over her head.

“You can stay here jus’ ’s long as you like, ma’am,” he yelled, in the

voice of a train dispatcher. “I’ll send your friends in when they

inquiahs.”

Aunt Mary eyed him gratefully, and gave him the nickel which she had

been carefully holding in her hand for the last hour.

Then she looked up, and saw Jack!

A perfectly splendid Jack, in resplendent attire, handsome, beaming,

with a big bouquet of violets in his hand!

“For you, Aunt Mary,” he said, and dropped them into her lap, and

hugged her fervently. She clung to him with a cling that forgot the

immediate past, disinheriting and all. Oh! she was so glad to see him!

The porter approached with a beneficent look.

“Has he taken good care of you, Aunt Mary?” Jack asked, as the man

gathered up the things and they started to leave the car.

“Yes, indeed,” Aunt Mary declared.

So Jack gave the porter a dollar.

Then they left the train.

“I was so worried,” Aunt Mary said, as she went along the platform

hanging on her nephew’s arm. “I thought you’d met with an accident.”

“I couldn’t get on until the rest got off,” he said, gazing down on her

with a smile; “but I was on hand, all right. My, but it’s good to think

that you’re here, Aunt Mary! Maybe you think that I don’t appreciate

your taking all this trouble for me, but I do, just the same.”

Aunt Mary smiled all over. Everyone who passed them was smiling, too,

and that added to the general joy of the atmosphere. Aunt Mary felt

proud of Jack, and rejoiced as to herself. Her content with life in

general was, for the moment, limitless. She did not stop to dissect the

sources of her delight. She was not in a critical mood just then.

“Why don’t you stick those flowers in your belt, Aunt Mary?” her nephew

asked, as they penetrated the worst of the human jungle, and the

preservation of the violets appeared to be the main question of the

day. “That’s what the girls do.”

His aunt looked vaguely down at herself. She had no belt to stick her

violets in. She wore no belt. She wore a basque. A basque is a beltless

something that you can’t remember, but that females did, once upon a

time, cover the upper half of their forms with. Basques buttoned down

the front with ten to thirty buttons, and may be studied at leisure in

any good collection of daguerreotypes. Ladies like Aunt Mary are apt to

scorn such futilities as waning styles after they pass beyond a certain

age, and for that reason there was no place for Jack’s violets.

“Never mind,” he said cheerfully, having followed her dubiousness with

his understanding. “Just hang on to them a minute longer, and we’ll be

out of all this.”

His words came true, and they finally did emerge from the seething mass

and found a carriage, the door of which happened to be standing

mysteriously open. Within, upon the small seat, some omniscient hands

had already deposited Aunt Mary’s bags. It did not take long to stow

Aunt Mary, face to her luggage, and she was barely established there

before her trunk came, too; and, although the coachman looked so

gorgeous, he was nevertheless obliging enough to allow it to couch

humbly at his feet.

Then they rolled away.

Jack sat sideways and looked at his aunt, holding her hand. His eyes

were unfeignedly happy, and his companion matched his eyes. Neither

seemed to recollect that one was bitterly angry, and that the other was

on the verge of melancholia. Instead, Jack declared fervently:

“Aunt Mary, I’ve made up my mind to give you the time of your life!”

And Aunt Mary drew a sigh of relief in his words and anticipation of

their fulfillment.

“I’ll be happy takin’ care of you,” she said, benevolently. “My!—but

your letter scared me. An’ yet you look well.”

He laughed.

“It’s the knowing you were coming that’s done that, Aunt Mary. You

ought to have seen me when I got your telegram. I almost turned a

somersault.”

Aunt Mary smiled rapturously and patted his hand.

And just then they drew up in front of the house. She looked out, and

her face fell a trifle.

“It’s awful high and narrow,” she said.

“They all are,” Jack replied, opening the carriage door and jumping out

to receive her.

The door at the top of the steps opened, and a man came down for the

bags. In the hall above, a pretty maid waited with a welcoming smile.

Jack piloted his aunt, first up the entrance steps, and then up the

staircase within, and led her to the lovely room which had been vacated

for her. The maid followed with tea and biscuits, and the man brought

the luggage and ranged it unobtrusively in a corner. There was a lavish

richness about everything which made Aunt Mary and her trunk appear as

gray and insignificant as a pair of mice, by contrast; but she didn’t

feel it, and so she didn’t mind it.

Jack kissed her tenderly.

“Welcome to town, Aunt Mary,” he said heartily, “and may you never live

to look upon this day as other than the luckiest of your life!” Then,

turning to the servant, he said:

“Janice, you see that you do all that money can buy for my aunt.”

The maid courtesied. She had arranged the tray upon a little table and

the spout of the tea pot and the round hole in the middle of the

toast-cover were each pouring forth a pleasant suggestion.

Aunt Mary began at once to haul forth her keys.

“Why, Aunt Mary,” Jack cried, wondering if her nose was deaf, too, or

whether she didn’t feel hungry, “don’t you see your tea? Or don’t you

want any?”

Aunt Mary thumbed her trunk key.

“I want a nightgown,” she said; “maybe I’ll want something else later.

Maybe.”

“You’re not going to _bed!_”

She drew herself up.

“I guess I can if I want to; I guess I can. There’s the bed and here’s

me.”

“Whatever are you saying? It isn’t half-past six o’clock.”

“I’m not _prayin_’ about anything,” said the old lady. “I don’t pray

about things. I do ’em when needful. And when I’m tired I go to bed.”

“All right, Aunt Mary,” with sugary sweetness and lamb-like

submissiveness. “I thought we’d dine out together, but if you don’t

want to, we needn’t. And if you feel like it when you waken, we can.”

“Dine out,” said Aunt Mary, blankly; “has the cook left? I never was a

great approver of goin’ and eatin’ at boarding houses.”

“Well, never mind,” Jack said in a key pitched to rhyme with high C.

“I’ll leave you now—and we can see about everything later.”

He kissed her, and retired from the room.

“Did he say we’re goin’ out to dinner?” Aunt Mary asked, when she was

left alone with the maid, who hurried to take her bonnet and shawl, and

get her into juxtaposition with the tea-tray as rapidly as possible.

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl screamed, nodding.

“I don’t want to,” said the old lady firmly. “Lots of trouble comes

through gettin’ out of house habits. I’ve come here to take care of a

sick boy and not to go gallivantin’ round myself. I’ve seen the evils

of gallivantin’ a good deal lately and I don’t want to see no more. Not

here and not nowhere.”

Then she began to eat and drink and reflect, all at the same time.

“By the way, what’s your name?” she asked, suddenly. “Jack didn’t tell

me.”

“Janice, ma’am.”

“Granite?” said Aunt Mary. “What a funny idea to name you that! Did

they call you for the tinware or for the rocks?”

“I don’t know,” shrieked Janice, who was busily occupied in unpacking

the traveler’s trunk.

Her new mistress watched her with a critical eye at first, but it

became a more or less sleepy eye as the warmth of the tea meandered

slowly through its owner. There was a battle within Aunt Mary’s brain;

she wanted to please Jack, and she was almost dead with sleep.

“Do you think that I ought to try and go out with my nephew to-night?”

she asked Janice.

“If it was me, I should go,” cried the maid.

“I never was called slow before,” Aunt Mary said, bridling. “I’ll thank

you to remember your place, young woman.”

Janice explained.

“Oh! I didn’t hear plainly,” said Aunt Mary. “I don’t always. Well go

or not go, I’ve _got_ to sleep first. I’m dreadfully sleepy, and I’ve

always been a great believer in sleepin’ when you’re sleepy.”

The fact of the sleepiness was so evident that no attempt was made to

gainsay it. Janice brought down a quilt from the closet and tucked her

charge up luxuriously on the great bed. Five minutes later she was in

dreamland.

Jack came in about seven and looked at her.

“She mustn’t be disturbed,” he said thoughtfully. “If she wakes up

before ten we’ll go out then.”

She awoke about nine, and when she opened her eyes the first thing that

she saw was Janice, sitting near by.

“I feel real good,” said Aunt Mary.

“I’m so glad,” yelled Janice, and smiled, too.

The old lady sat up.

“I believe I could have gone out, after all,” she said. “Only I don’t

want to take dinner anywhere.”

Then she paused and reflected. It was surprising how good she felt and

how she did want to make Jack happy. “After all boys will be boys,” she

thought, tenderly, “an’ I ain’t but seventy, so I don’t see why I

shouldn’t go out with him if he wants to. I’m a great believer in doin’

what you want to—I mean, in doin’ what other folks want you to. At any

rate I’m a great believer in it sometimes. To-day—this time.”

“Your nephew is waiting,” the maid howled. “Shall I tell him you want

to go after all?”

“Is it late?” the old lady inquired.

“Oh, dear, no!”

“Wouldn’t you go if you was me?” asked the old lady.

Janice smiled.

“Indeed I would.”

Aunt Mary rose. A flood of metropolitan fever suddenly surged up and

around and over and through her.

“Tell him I’ll be down in five minutes,” she said.

“Can you change in that time?” Janice stopped to shriek.

“What should I change for?” Aunt Mary demanded in astonishment. “Ain’t

I all dressed now?”

Janice did not attempt to shriek any counter-advice, and while she was

gone to find Jack, her mistress brushed herself in some places, soaped

herself in others, and considered her toilet made. When Janice returned

she caught up a loose lock of hair, and put the placket-hole of her

skirt square in the middle of Aunt Mary’s back, and dared go no

further. There was an air even about the back of Jack’s influential

aunt which forbade too much liberty to those dealing with her.

Chapter Fourteen

Aunt Mary En Fête

[Illustration: Aunt Mary en Fête. May Robson as “Aunt Mary.”]

Aunt Mary descended the stairs about half-past nine; she thought it was

about a quarter to eight, but the difference between the hour that it

was and the hour that she thought that it was will be all the same a

hundred years from now.

Jack came out of the Louis XIV. drawing room when he heard her step in

the hall. There was another young man with him.

“This is my friend Burnett, Aunt Mary,” her nephew roared. “You must

excuse his not bowing lower, but you know he broke his collarbone

recently.”

Aunt Mary shook hands warmly; she knew all about the ribs and the

collarbone, because they had formed big items in the testimony which

had momentarily and as momentously relegated Jack to the comradeship of

the devil himself, in her eyes. However, she recalled them merely as

facts now—not at all in a disagreeable way—and gave Burnett an extra

squeeze of good-fellowship, as she said:

“You had a narrow escape, young man.”

“I didn’t have any escape at all,” said Burnett. “The escape went down

at the back, and I had to jump from a cornice.”

“Burnett is going out to dine with us, Aunt Mary,” said Jack. “There’s

so little he can eat on account of his ribs that he’s a good dinner

guest for me.”

Jack’s aunt felt vaguely uncomfortable over this allusion to her

grand-nephew’s circumstances, and coughed in slight embarrassment.

Burnett opened the door, and the carriage lamp shone below. (Is there

ever anything more delightfully suggestive than a carriage lamp shining

down below?) They took her down and put her in, and the carriage rolled

away.

It was that June when “Bedelia” covered nearly the whole of the

political horizon; it was the date of June when West Point, Vassar, the

Blue, the Red, the Black and Yellow and every known device for getting

rid of young and growing-up America are all cast loose at once on our

fair land. The streets were a scene of glorious confusion, and but for

Aunt Mary no considerations could have kept Burnett’s collarbone and

Jack’s melancholia cooped up in a closed carriage. As it was, they were

both fidgeting like two youthful Uncle Sams in a European railway

coupé, when the latter suddenly exclaimed: “Here we are!” and threw

open the door as he spoke. Then he got out and Burnett got out and

between them they got Aunt Mary out.

Aunt Mary regarded the awning and carpet and general glitter with a

more or less appalled gaze.

“Looks like—” she began; and was interrupted by a voice at her side:

“Hello, Jack!”

“Hello, Clover!”

She turned and saw him of the pale mustache whom we once met in Mrs.

Rosscott’s drawing room. He was in no wise altered since that occasion

except that his attire was slightly more resplendent and he had on a

silk hat.

Jack shook hands warmly and then he turned to his relative.

“Aunt Mary, this is my friend Clover; he’s often heard me speak of

you.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Rover,” said Aunt Mary, cordially, and she, too,

shook hands with that cordiality that flourishes beyond city limits.

Her nephew bent over her ear-trumpet.

“Clover!” he howled, with all the strength he owned.

“I heard before,” said Aunt Mary, somewhat coldly.

“Come on and dine with us, Clover,” said Jack; “that’ll make four.” (By

the way, isn’t it odd how many people ask their friends to dinner for

the simple reason that, arithmetically considered, each counts as one!)

“All right, I will,” said Clover, in his languid drawl.

Aunt Mary saw his lips.

“It’s no use my deceivin’ you as to my bein’ a little hard of hearin’,”

she said to him, “because you can see my ear-trumpet; so I’ll trouble

you to say that over again.”

“All right, I will,” Clover wailed, good-humoredly.

“What?” asked Aunt Mary. “I didn’t—”

Jack cut her short by leading the party inside.

The scene within was as gorgeous with golden stucco as the dining-room

of a German liner. Aunt Mary was so overcome that she traversed half

the room before she became aware of the mighty attention which she and

her three escorts were attracting. In truth, it is not every day that

three good-looking young men take a tiny old lady, a bunch of violets

and an ear-trumpet out to dine at ten o’clock.

“Everyone’s lookin’,” she said to Jack.

“It’s your back, Aunt Mary,” he replied, in a voice that shook some

loose golden flakes from the ceiling. “I tell you, not many women of

your age have a back like yours, and don’t you forget it.”

The compliment pleased Aunt Mary, because she had all her life been

considered round-shouldered. It also pleased her because she never had

received many compliments. The Aunt Marys of this world love flattery

just as dearly as the Mrs. Rosscotts; the sad part of life is that they

rarely get any. The women like Mrs. Rosscott know why the Aunt Marys go

unflattered, but the Aunt Marys never understand. It’s all sad—and

true—and undeniable.

They went to a table, and were barely seated when another man came up.

“Hello, Jack!”

“Hello, Mitchell!”

It was he of Scotch ancestry. Jack sprang up and greeted him with

warmth, then he turned to Aunt Mary.

“Aunt Mary,” he screamed, “this is my friend”—he paused, put on all

steam and ploughed right through—“Herbert Kendrick Mitchell.”

“I didn’t catch that at all,” said Aunt Mary, calmly, “but I’m just as

glad to meet the gentleman.”

Mitchell clasped her hand with an expression as burning as if it was

real.

“I declare,” he yelled straight at her, “if this isn’t what I’ve been

dreaming towards ever since I first knew Jack.”

Aunt Mary fairly shone.

“Dear me,” she began, “if I’d known—”

“You’d better dine with us, Mitchell,” said Jack; “that’ll make five.”

“It won’t make but three for me,” said Mitchell. “I haven’t had but two

dinners before to-night.”

Clover smiled because he heard, and Aunt Mary smiled because she

didn’t, but was happy anyway. She had altogether forgotten that she had

demurred at dining out. They all sat down and shook out their napkins.

Mitchell and Clover shook Aunt Mary’s for her and gave it a beautiful

cornerways spread across her lap.

Then the waiter laid another plate for Mitchell, and brought oyster

cocktails for everyone. Aunt Mary eyed hers with early curiosity and

later suspicion; and she smelled of it very carefully.

“I don’t believe they’re good oysters,” she said.

“Yes, they are,” cried Mitchell reassuringly. His voice, when he turned

it upon her, was pitched like a clarionet. The blind would surely have

seen as well as the deaf have heard had there been any candidates for

miracles in his immediate vicinity. “They’re first-class,” he added,

“you just go at them and see.”

The reassured took another whiff.

“You can have mine,” she said directly afterwards; and there was an air

of decision about her speech which brooked no opposition. Yet Mitchell

persisted.

“Oh, no,” he yelled; “you must learn how. Just throw your head back and

take ’em quick—after the fashion that they eat raw eggs, don’t you

know?”

“But she can’t,” said Clover. “There’s too much, particularly as she

isn’t used to them. I’ll tell you, Miss Watkins,” he cried, hoisting

his own voice to the masthead, “you eat the oysters, and leave the

cocktail. That’s the way to get gradually trained into the wheel.”

Aunt Mary thought some of obeying; she fished out one oyster, wiped it

carefully with a bit of bread, regarded it with more than dubious

countenance, and then suddenly decided not to.

“I’d rather be at home when I try experiments,” she said, decidedly;

and the waiter carried off her cocktail and gave her food that was good

beyond question thereafter.

The dinner went with zest. It was an enlivening party that consumed it,

and what they consumed with it enlivened them still more. The gentlemen

soon reached the point where they could laugh over jokes they could not

understand, and the one lady member became equally merry over wit that

she did not hear. She forgot for the nonce that there were any phases

of life in which she was not a believer, and whether this was owing to

the surrounding gayety or to the champagne which they persuaded her to

taste it is not my province to explain.

“Now we must lay our lines for events to come,” Jack said, when they

advanced upon the dessert and prepared to occupy an extensive territory

of ices, fruit, and jellied something or other. “It would be a sin for

Aunt Mary to leave this famous battlefield without a few honorable

scars! We must take her out in a bubble for one thing and—”

“In mine!” cried Clover. “To-morrow! Why can’t she?—I held up my hand

first?”

“All right,” said Jack; “to-morrow she’s your’s. At four o’clock.”

“She must have goggles,” cried Mitchell. “She must have goggles and be

all fixed up, and when you have got her the goggles and she has been

all fixed up, I ask, as a last boon, that I may go along, just so as to

see everyone who sees her.”

“We’ll all go,” Clover explained. “I’ll ‘chuff’ her myself and then

there’ll be room for everyone.”

“To the auto and to to-morrow!” cried Burnett, hastily pouring out a

fresh toast, which even Aunt Mary applauded, not at all knowing what

she was applauding.

“And now for the next day,” said Jack. “I think I’ll give her a

box-party. Don’t you want to go to the theater in a box, Aunt Mary?”

“Go where in a box?” said Aunt Mary, starting a little. “I didn’t quite

catch that.”

“To the theater,” Jack yelled.

“To the theater,” repeated his aunt a trifle blankly, “I—”

“And the next day,” said Mitchell suddenly (he had been reflecting

maturely), “I’ll take you all up the sound in my yacht.”

“Oh, hurrah,” cried Burnett, “that’ll be bully! And the day after I’ll

give her a picnic.”

“Time of your life, Aunt Mary,” Jack shrieked in her ear-trumpet; “time

of your life!”

“Dear me!” said Aunt Mary, “I don’t just—”

“Aunt Mary! glasses down!” cried Clover; “may she live forever and

forever.”

“To Aunt Mary, glasses up,” said Mitchell. “Glasses up come before

glasses down always. It’s one of the laws of Nature—human nature—also

of good nature. Here’s to Aunt Mary, and if she isn’t the Aunt Mary of

all of us here’s a hoping she may get there some day; I don’t just see

how, but I ask the indulgence of those present on the plea that I have

indulged quite a little myself to-night. Honi soit qui mal y pense; ora

pro nobis, Erin-go-Bragh. Present company being present, and impossible

to except on that account, we will omit the three cheers and choke down

the tiger.”

They all drank, and the dinner having by this time dwindled down to

coffee grounds and cheese crumbs a vote was taken as to where they

should go next.

Aunt Mary suggested home, but she was over-ruled, and they all went

elsewhere. She never could recollect where she went or what she saw;

but, as everyone else has been and seen over and over again, I won’t

fuss with detailing it.

The visitor from the country reached home in a carriage in the small

hours in the morning, and Janice received her, looking somewhat

nervous.

“This is pretty late,” she ventured to remind the bearers; but as they

didn’t seem to think so, and she was a maiden, wise beyond her years,

she spoke no further word, but went to work and undressed the aged

reveller, got her comfortably established in bed, and then left her to

get a good sleep, an occupation which occupied the weary one fully

until two that afternoon.

When she did at last open her eyes it was several minutes before she

knew where she was. Her brain seemed dazed, her intellect more than

clouded. It is a state of mind to which those who habitually go about

in hansoms at the hour of dawn are well accustomed, but to Aunt Mary it

was painfully new. She struggled to remember, and felt helplessly

inadequate to the task. Janice finally came in with a glass of

something that foamed and fizzed, and the victim of late hours drank

that and came to her senses again. Then she recollected.

“My! but I had a good time last night!” she said, putting her hand to

her head. “What time is it now, anyhow?”

“Breakfast time,” cried the handmaiden. “You’ll have just long enough

to eat and dress leisurely before you go out.”

“Oh!” said Aunt Mary blankly; “where ’m I goin’? Do you know?”

“Mr. Denham told me that you had promised to attend an automobile party

at four.”

“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Mary hastily. “I guess I remember. I guess I do. I

saw Jack wanted to go, so I said I’d go, too. I’m a great believer in

lettin’ the young enjoy themselves.”

She looked sharply at Janice as she spoke, but Janice was serene.

“I didn’t come to town to do anything but make Jack happy,” continued

Aunt Mary, “and I see that he won’t take any fresh air without I go

along—so I shall go too while I’m here. Mostly. As a general thing.”

“Mr. Mitchell called and left these flowers with his card,” Janice

said, opening a huge box of roses; “and a man brought a package. Shall

I open it?”

Aunt Mary’s wrinkles fairly radiated.

“Well, did I ever!” she exclaimed. “Yes; open it.”

Janice proceeded to obey, and the package was found to contain an

automobile wrap, a pair of goggles and a note from Clover.

“My gracious me!” cried Aunt Mary.

“Mr. Denham sent the violets,” Janice said, pointing to a great bowl of

lilac and white blossoms.

Just then the doorbell rang, and it was a ten-pound box of candy from

Burnett.

Aunt Mary collapsed among her pillows.

“I _never_ did!” she murmured feebly, and then she suddenly exclaimed:

“An’ to think of me livin’ up there all my life with plenty of money—”

she stopped short. I tell you when you come to New York on a mission

and stay for the Bacchanalia it is hard to hold consistently to either

standard.

But Janice had gone for her lady’s breakfast, and after the lady had

eaten it and had herself dressed for the day’s joys, Jack knocked at

the door.

“Well, Aunt Mary,” he roared, when he was let in, “if you don’t look

fine! You’re the freshest of the bunch to-day, sure. You’ll be ready

for another night to-night, and you’ve only to say where, you know.”

“Granite did my hair,” said his aunt; “you must praise her, not me.”

“And you’ve got your goggles all ready, too,” he continued. “Who sent

’em?”

“Oh, I shan’t wiggle,” said Aunt Mary “although I can’t see how it

could hurt if I did.”

“Come on and let’s dress her up,” said Jack to the maid, “Glory! what

fun!”

Thereupon they went to work and rigged the old lady out. She was

certainly a sight, for she stood by her own bonnet, and that failed to

jibe with the goggles.

Burnett was summoned in to view the proceedings, but just as he caught

the first glimpse he was taken with a fearful cramp in his broken ribs

and was forced to beat the hastiest sort of a retreat.

“I hope he’ll get over it and be able to go out with us,” said Aunt

Mary anxiously.

“I guess he’ll recover,” Jack yelled cheerfully. “Oh, there’s Clover!”

A sort of dull, ponderous panting sounded in the street without, and

let all the neighbors know that “The Threshing Machine” (as Clover had

christened his elephantine toy) was waiting for someone.

Its owner came in for a stirrup cup; Mitchell was with him. Both were

togged out as if entered for the annual Paris-Bordeaux.

Burnett brought out the cut-glass jugs.

“Ye gods and little fishes! Sapristi! Sacre bleu!” he said to his

friends. “Just you wait till you see our Aunt Mary!”

“Has she got ’em all on?” Clover asked.

“Has she got ’em all on!” said Burnett. “She has got ’em all on; and

how Jack held his own in the room with her I cannot understand. I took

one look, and if mine had been a surgical case of stitches the last

thread would have bust that instant. I don’t believe I dare go out with

you. This is a life and death game to Jack, and I won’t risk smashing

his future by not being able to keep sober in the face of Aunt Mary.”

“Oh, come on,” Clover urged in his wiry voice. “You needn’t look at

her; or, if you do look at her, you can look the other way right

afterwards, you know.”

“I’ll sit next to her,” Mitchell explained. “As a sitter by Aunt Mary’s

side I shone last night; and where a man has sat once, the same man can

surely sit again.”

Burnett hesitated, and just then voices were heard in the hall. Jack

and Janice were convoying Aunt Mary below.

Mitchell went out into the hall.

“Well, Miss Watkins,” he said, in a tone such as one would use to call

down Santos-Dumont, “I’m mighty glad to see you looking so well.”

Aunt Mary turned the goggles full upon him.

“A present from Mr. Clover,” she said smiling.

“I never knew him to take so much trouble for any lady before,” said

Mitchell; and as she arrived just then at the foot of the staircase he

pressed her proffered hand warmly and forthwith led her in upon the two

men in the library.

She looked exactly like a living edition of one of the bug pictures,

and Clover had to think and swallow fast and hard to keep from being

overcome. But he was true blue, and came out right side up. Aunt Mary

was acclaimed on all sides, and escorted to the “bubble.”

Burnett couldn’t resist going, too, at the last moment; but, as his

ribs were really tender yet, he sat in front with Clover. Jack and

Mitchell sat behind, and deftly inserted the honored guest between

them.

“It’s an even thing as to which is the ear-trumpet side,” Mitchell

said, as they all stood about preparatory to climbing in. “Of course,

that side don’t need to holler quite so loud; but then, to balance, he

may get his one and only pair of front teeth knocked out any minute.”

“I’ll take that side,” said Jack. “I’m used to fighting under the

inspiration of the trumpet.”

“And God be with you,” said his friend piously. “May he watch over you

and bring you out safe and whole—teeth, eyes, etc.”

“Come on,” said Clover impatiently; “don’t you know this thing’s

getting up power and you’re wasting it talking.”

“Curious,” laughed Burnett. “I never knew that it was gasolene that men

were consuming when they kept an automobile waiting.”

And then they got in and were off—a merry load, indeed.

“Dear me, but it’s a-goin’!” Aunt Mary exclaimed, as the thing began to

whiz and she felt suddenly impelled to clutch wildly at her flanking

escorts. “Suppose we met a dog.”

“We’d leave a floor mat,” shrieked Mitchell. “Oh, but isn’t this

great—greater—greatest?”

“Time of your life, Aunt Mary!” Jack howled, as they went over a

boarded spot in the pavement, and the old lady nearly went over the

back in consequence. “You’re in for the time of your life!”

“How do you like it?” yelled Clover, throwing a glance over his

shoulder.

Aunt Mary started to answer, but they came to four car tracks one after

another, and the successive shocks rendered her speechless.

“Where are we going?” Burnett asked.

“Nowhere,” said Clover. “Just waking up the machine.” And he turned on

another million volts as he spoke.

“Oh, my bonnet!” cried poor Aunt Mary, and that bit of her adornment

was in the street and had been run over four times before they could

slow up, turn around, and get back to the scene of its output.

It speaks volumes for the permeating atmosphere of “having the time of

your life” that its owner laughed when the wreck was shown to her.

“I don’t care a bit,” she said. “I can go down to Delmonico’s an’ get

me another to-morrow mornin’, easy.”

“What a trump you are, Aunt Mary!” said Jack admiringly. “Here,

Burnett, fish her out that extra cap from the cane rack; there’s always

one in the bottom. There—now you won’t take cold, Aunt Mary.”

The cap, with its fore-piece, was the crowning glory of Aunt Mary’s

get-up. The brain measurements of him who had bought the cap being to

its present wearer’s as five is to three, the effect of its

proportions, in addition to the goggles and the ear-trumpet, was such

as to have overawed a survivor of Medusa’s stare.

“Oh, I say,” said Mitchell, “it’s a sin to keep as good a joke as this

in the family! We must drive her around town until the night falls down

or the battery burns out.”

“I say so too,” said Burnett. “This is more sport than oiling railroad

tracks and seeing old Tweedwell brought up for it. Say, set her

a-buzzing again. It’s a big game, isn’t it?”

Clover thought so, with the result that they speeded through tranquil

neighborhoods and churned leisurely where the masses seethed until

countless thousands were wondering what under the sun those four young

fellows had in the back of their car.

The sad part about all good fun is that it has to end sooner or later;

and about six o’clock the whole party began to be aware that, if

refreshments were not taken, their end was surely close at hand. They

therefore called a brief halt somewhere to get what is technically

known as a “sandwich,” and the results were thoroughly satisfactory to

everyone but Aunt Mary. She took one bite of her sandwich, and then

opened it with an abruptness which merged into disgust when it proved

to be full of fish eggs.

“Why didn’t you tell me what it was made of?” she asked in annoyance.

“I feel just as if I’d swallowed a marsh—a green one!”

“That’s a shame!” said Clover indignantly. “I’ll get you something that

will take that taste out of your mouth double quick. Here!” he called

to a waiter, and then he gave the man certain careful directions.

The latter nodded wisely, and a few minutes later brought in a tiny

glass containing a pousse-café in three different colors.

“It’s a cocktail. Drink it quick,” Clover directed.

Aunt Mary demurred.

“I never drank a cocktail,” she began.

“No time like the present to begin,” said Clover, “you’ll have to learn

some day.”

“Cocktails,” said Mitchell, “are the advance guard of a newer and

brighter civilization. They—”

“If she’s going to take it at all she must take it now,” said Clover

authoritatively. “The green and the yellow are beginning to run

together. Quick now!”

His confiding guest drank quick and became the three different colors

quicker yet.

“What’s the matter?” Jack asked anxiously.

Aunt Mary was speechless.

“He mixed it wrong,” said Clover in a sad, discouraged tone. “What she

ought to have got first she got last, that’s all. The cocktail is

upside down inside of her, and the effect of it is upside down on the

outside of her.”

“Feel any better now, Aunt Mary?” Jack yelled.

“I can’t seem to keep the purple swallowed,” said the poor old lady. “I

want to go home. I’ve always been a great believer in going home when

you feel like I do now. In general—as a rule.”

“I would strongly recommend your obeying her wishes,” said Mitchell,

with great earnestness. “There’s a time for all things, and, in my

opinion, she’s had about all the queer tastes that she can absorb for

to-day. Things being as they are and mainly as they shouldn’t be, I

cast my vote in with what looks as if it would soon become the losing

side, and vote to bubble back for all we’re worth.”

There was a general acquiescence in his view of the case, which led

them all to pile into “The Threshing Machine” with unaffected haste and

rush Aunt Mary bedward as rapidly as was possible considering the hour

and the policemen.

Janice received her mistress with the tender welcome that every

prodigal may count on and was especially expeditious with tea and toast

and a robe de nuit. Aunt Mary sighed luxuriously when she felt herself

finally tucked up.

“After all, Granite,” she said dreamily, “there’s nothin’ like gettin’

stretched out to think it over—is there?”

But Janice was turning out the lights.

Chapter Fifteen

Aunt Mary Enthralled

Jack’s aunt slept long and dreamlessly again. That thrice-blessed sleep

which follows nights abroad in the metropolis.

When, toward four o’clock, Aunt Mary opened her eyes, she was at first

almost as hazy in her conceptions as she had found herself upon the

previous day.

“I feel as if the automobile was runnin’ up my back and over my head,”

she said, thoughtfully passing her hand along the machine’s imaginary

course. Then she rang her bell and Janice appeared from the room

beyond.

“I guess you’d better give me some of that that you gave me yesterday,”

the elderly lady suggested; “what do you think?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Janice—and went at once and brought it in separate

glasses on a tray, and mixed it by pouring, while Aunt Mary looked on

with an intuitive understanding that passed instinct and bordered on a

complete comprehension of things to her hitherto unknown.

“They’d ought to advertise that,” she said, as she set down the empty

glass a few seconds later. “There’d be a lot of folks who’d be glad to

know there was such a thing when they first wake up mornin’s

after—after—well, mornin’s after anythin’. It’s jus’ what you want

right off; it sort of runs through your hair and makes you begin to

remember.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Janice, turning to put down the tray, and then

crossing the room to seek something on the chimney-piece.

Aunt Mary gave a sudden twist,—as if the drink had infused an

effervescing energy into her frame. “Well what am I goin’ to do

to-day?” she asked.

“Mr. Denham has written out your engagements here,” said Janice,

handing her a jeweler’s box as she spoke.

Aunt Mary tore off the tissue paper with trembling haste—lifted the

cover—and beheld a tiny ivory and gold memoranda card.

“Well, that boy!” she ejaculated.

“Shall I read the list aloud to you?” the maid inquired.

“Yes, read it.”

So Janice read the dates proposed the night before and Aunt Mary sat up

in bed, held her ear-trumpet, and beamed beatifically.

“I don’t believe I ever can do all that,” she said when Janice paused;

“I never was one to rush around pell-mell, but I’ve always been a great

believer in lettin’ other folks enjoy themselves an’ I shall try not to

interfere.”

Janice hung the tiny memoranda up beside its owner’s watch and stood at

attention for further orders.

“But I d’n know I’m sure what I can wear to-night,” continued the one

in bed; “you know my bonnet was run over yesterday.”

“Was it?”

“Yes,—it was the most sudden thing I ever saw. I thought it was the top

of my head at first.”

“Was it spoiled?”

“Well, it wouldn’t do for me again and I don’t really believe it would

even do for Lucinda. We didn’t bring it home with us anyhow an’ so its

no use talkin’ of it any more. I’m sure I wish I’d brought my other

with me. It wasn’t quite as stylish, but it set so good on my head. As

it is I ain’t got any bonnet to wear an’ we’re goin’ in a box, Jack

says,—I should hate to look wrong in a box.”

“But ladies in boxes do not wear anything,” cried Janice reasuringly.

Aunt Mary jumped.

“Not _anything?_”

“On their heads.”

“Oh!—Well, then the bonnet half of me’ll be all right, but what _shall_

I wear on the rest of me? I don’t want to look out of fashion, you

know. My, but I wish I’d brought my Paisley shawl. I’ve got a Paisley

shawl that’s a very rare pattern. There’s cocoanuts in the border and a

twisted design of monkeys and their tails done in the center. An’ there

ain’t a moth hole in it—not one.”

Janice looked out of the window.

“I’ve got a cameo pin, too,” continued Aunt Mary reflectively. “My, but

that’s a handsome pin, as I remember it. It’s got Jupiter on it holdin’

a bunch of thunder and lightnin’ an’ receivin’ the news of somebody’s

bein’ born—I used to know the whole story. But, you see, I expected to

just be sittin’ by Jack’s bed and I never thought to bring any of those

dress-up kind of things,” she sighed.

Janice returned to the bed side.

“Hadn’t you better begin to dress?” she howled suggestively. “They are

going to dine here before going to the theater and dinner is ordered in

an hour.”

“Maybe I had,” said Aunt Mary, “but—oh dear—I don’t know what I _will_

wear!” She began to emerge from the bedclothes as she spoke.

“How would my green plaid waist do?” she asked earnestly.

“I think it would be lovely,” shrieked the maid.

“Well, shake it out then,” said Aunt Mary, “it ought to be in the

fashion—all the silk they put in the sleeves. An’ if you’ll do my hair

just as you did it yesterday—”

“Yes, I will.”

Then the labor of the toilette began in good earnest, and

three-quarters of an hour later Aunt Mary was done, and sitting by the

window while Janice laced her boots.

A rap sounded at the door.

“Come in,” cried the maid.

It was Jack with a regular fagot of American Beauties.

“Well, Aunt Mary,” he cried with his customary hearty greeting. “How!”

“How what?” asked Aunt Mary, whose knowledge of Sioux social customs

had been limited by the border line of New England.

Jack laughed. “How are you?” he asked in correction of his imperfect

phrasing. And then he handed over the rose wood.

“I’m pretty well,” said his aunt; “but, my goodness you mustn’t bring

me so many presents—you—”

Jack stopped her words with a kiss. “Now, Aunt Mary, don’t you scold,

because you’re my company and I won’t have it. This is my treat, and

just don’t you fret. What do you say to your roses?”

Aunt Mary looked a bit uneasy.

“They’re pretty big,” she hesitated.

“That’s the fashion,” said Jack; “the longer you can buy ’em the better

the girls like it. I tried to get you some eight feet long but they

only had two of that number and I wanted the whole bunch to match—”

He was interrupted by another rap on the door.

“Hallo!” he cried. “Come in.”

It was Mitchell with several dozen carnations, the most brilliant yet

prized—or priced.

“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Aunt Mary.

“For you, Miss Watkins,” cried the newcomer, gracefully offering his

homage, “with the assurance of my sincere regret that I came on the

scene too late to have been making a scene with you fifty years ago.”

“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Aunt Mary, rapturously. But never

mind,—Granite, get a tin basin or suthin’ for these flowers.”

“Where’s Burnett?” Jack asked the newcomer,—“isn’t he dressed? It’s

getting late.”

“He’s all right,” said Mitchell; “he and Clover are—here they are!”

The two came in together at that second. Clover’s mustache just showed

over the top of the largest bunch of violets ever constructed, and

Burnett bore with assiduous care a bouquet of orchids tied with a Roman

sash.

Aunt Mary leaned back and shut her eyes. If it hadn’t been for her

smile, they might possibly have feared for her life.

But she was only momentarily stunned by surpassing ecstasy.

“You’d better put some water in the bath-tub, Granite,” she said,

recovering, “nothing else will be big enough.”

The four young men drew up chairs and rivalled her smiles with theirs.

“I d’n know how I ever can thank you,” said the old lady warmly. “I’ve

always had such a poor opinion o’ life in cities, too!”

“Life in cities, my dear Miss Watkins,” screamed Mitchell, “is always

pictured as very black, but it’s only owing to the soft coal—not to the

people who burn it.”

Aunt Mary smiled again.

“I guess the bath-tub will be big enough to keep ’em fresh,” she said

simply, and Mitchell gave up and dried his forehead with his

handkerchief.

They dined at home upon this occasion and afterwards took two carriages

for the theater. Aunt Mary, Jack, Clover, the American Beauties and the

violets went in the first, and what remained of the party and the

floral decorations followed in the second.

“I mean to smoke,” said that part of the second load which habitually

answered to the name of Mitchell. “There is nothing so soothing when

you have thorns in your legs as a cigarette in your mouth.”

“Too—too;” laughed his companion. “Jimmy! but our aunt is game, isn’t

she?”

“To my order of thinking,” said Mitchell thoughtfully scratching a

match, “Aunt Mary has been hung up in cold storage just long enough to

have acquired the exactly proper gamey flavor. It cannot be denied that

to worn, worldly, jaded mortals like you and me, the sight of fresh,

ever bubbling, youthful enthusiasm like hers is as thrilling and

trilling and rilling as—as—as—” he paused to light his cigarette.

[Illustration: Aunt Mary and Her Escorts.]

“Yes, you’d better stutter,” said Burnett. “I thought you were running

ahead of your proper signals.”

“It isn’t that,” said Mitchell, puffing gently. “It is that I suddenly

recollected that I was alone with you, and my brains tell me that it is

a waste of brains to use them in the sense of a plural noun with you.

The word in your company,—my dear boy—only comes to me as a verb—as an

active verb—and dear knows how often I have itched to apply it

forcibly.”

Then they drew up in front of the theater and saw Aunt Mary being

unloaded just beyond.

“Great Scott, I feel as if I was a part of a poster!” said Burnett,

diving into the carriage depths for the last lot of flowers.

“I feel as if I were a part of the Revelation,” said Mitchell, “I

mean—the Revel-eration.”

They rapidly formed on somewhat after the plan of the famous “Marriage

under the Directoire.” Aunt Mary commanded the center-rush, leaning on

Jack’s arm, and the rest acted as half-backs, left wings, or

flower-bearers, just as the reader prefers.

They made quite a sensation as they proceeded to their box and more yet

when they entered it. They were late—very late—as is the privilege of

all box parties and their seating problem absorbed the audience to a

degree never seen before or since.

Jack put Aunt Mary and her green plaid waist in the middle and flanked

her with purple violets and red carnations. The ear-trumpet was laid

upon the orchids just where she could reach it easily. Then her escorts

took positions as a sort of half-moon guard behind and each held two or

three American Beauties straight up and down as if they were the

insignia of his rank and office.

The effect was gorgeous. The very actors saw and were interested at

once. They directed all their attention to that one box, and at the end

of the act the stage manager got the writer of the topical song on the

wire and had a brand new and very apropos verse added which brought

down the house.

Jack and his party caught on and clapped like mad, Aunt Mary beat the

front of the box with her ear-trumpet, and when Clover suggested that

she throw some flowers to the heroine she threw the orchids and came

near maiming the bass viol for life. Burnett rushed out between acts

and bought her a cane to pound with, Jack rushed out between more acts

and bought her a pair of opera glasses, Mitchell rushed out between

still further acts and procured her one of those Japanese fans which

they use for fire-screens, and agitated it around her during the rest

of the evening.

“Time of your life, Aunt Mary,” Jack vociferated under the cover of a

general chorus; “Time of your life!”

“Oh, my,” said Aunt Mary, heaving a great sigh, “seems if I’d _die_

when I think of Lucinda.”

They got out of the theater somewhat after eleven and Clover took them

all to a French café for supper, so that again it was pretty well along

into the day after when Janice regained her charge.

“Granite,” said Aunt Mary very solemnly, as she collapsed upon her bed

twenty minutes later yet, “put it down on that memoranda for me never

to find no fault with nothing ever again. Never—not ever—not never

again.”

The second day after was that which had been set for Mitchell’s

yachting party. They allowed a day to lapse between because a yachting

party has to begin early enough so that you can see to get on board.

Mitchell wanted his to begin early enough so that they could see the

yacht too.

“A yacht, Miss Watkins,” he said into the ear trumpet, “is a delight

that it takes daylight to delight in. If my words sound somewhat mixed,

believe me, it is the effect of what is to come casting its shadow

before. I speak with understanding and sympathy—you will know all

later.”

Aunt Mary smiled sweetly. Sometimes she thought that Mitchell was the

nicest of the three—times when she wasn’t talking to Clover or Burnett.

Jack took his aunt out to drive on the afternoon of the intervening day

and bought her a blue suit with a red tape around one arm, and some

rubbersoled shoes, and a yachting cap and a mackintosh. There was

something touching in Aunt Mary’s joyful confidence and

anticipation—she having never been cast loose from shore in all her

life.

“When do you s’pose we’ll get home?” she asked Jack.

“Oh, some time toward night,” he replied.

She smiled with a trust as colossal as Trusts usually are.

“I’m sure I shall have a good time,” she said. “I always liked to see

pictures of waves.”

“You’ll see the real things now, Aunt Mary,” cried her nephew heartily.

He was not a bit malicious, possessing a stomach whose equilibrium

could not conceive any other anatomical condition.

Janice, however, had doubts, and on the morning of the next day her

doubts deepened. She looked from the window and shook her head.

“Feel a fly?” inquired Aunt Mary.

“No, I see some clouds,” yelled her maid.

“I didn’t ask you to speak loud,” said the old lady. “I always hear

what you say. Always.”

Janice went out of the room and voiced her views of the weather to the

proprietors of the expedition. The proprietors were having an

uproarious breakfast on ham and eggs—all but Mitchell, who sat somewhat

aloof and contented himself with an old and reliable breakfast food

long known to his race.

“Are you really going to take her up the Sound to-day?” the maid

demanded of the merry mob.

“I’m not,” said Burnett; “it’s the yacht that’s going to take her. Pass

the syrup, Jack, like the jack you are.”

“Doesn’t she feel well?” Jack asked, passing the syrup as requested.

“If she doesn’t feel well, of course, we won’t go.”

“I like that,” said Mitchell, “when it’s my day for my party and my

cook all provisioned with provisions for provisioning us all. How long

do you suppose ice cream stays together in this month of roses,

anyhow?”

“She is very well,” said the maid quietly, “but it’s blowing pretty

fresh here in the city and I thought that out on the Sound—”

“Blowing fresh, is it?” laughed Burnett; “well, it’ll salt her fast

enough when we get out. Don’t you fuss over what’s none of your

business, my dear girl; just trot along upstairs and dress dolly, and

when she’s dressed we’ll take her off your hands.”

Jack appeared unduly quiet.

“Do you think it is going to storm?” he asked Mitchell. Mitchell was

scraping his saucer with the thrift that thrives north of the Firth of

Forth and hatches yachts on the west shores of the Atlantic.

“I don’t think at all during vacation,” he said mildly. “I repose and

reap ‘Oh’s’—from other people.”

“If there was any chance of a storm——?” said the nephew, thoughtfully.

“Fiddle-dee-dee,” said Burnett impatiently, “what do you think yachts

are for, anyhow? To let alone?” He looked at the maid as he spoke and

pointed significantly to the door. She went out at once and returned

upstairs to her mistress whom she found quite restless to “get-a-goin’”

as she expressed it.

The boxes filled with yesterday’s purchases were brought out at once

and Janice proceeded to rubber-sole and blue-serge Aunt Mary. The

latter regarded every step of the performance in the huge three-fold

cheval glass which had been wont to tell Mrs. Rosscott things that

every woman longs to know.

When her toilette was complete it must be admitted that as a

yachtswoman Aunt Mary fairly outshone her automobile portrait. She

surveyed herself long and carefully.

“I expect it’ll be quite an experience,” she said with many new

wrinkles of anticipation.

“Yes,” said Janice, with a glance at the fluttering window curtains, “I

expect it will be.”

Aunt Mary went downstairs and was greeted with loud acclamations. The

breakfast party broke up at once and, while Janice phoned for cabs,

Aunt Mary’s quartette of escorts sought hats, coats, etcetera. After

that they all sallied forth and took their places as joyfully as ever.

It was quite a long drive to where “Lady Belle” had been brought up,

and they had to stop once to lay in two or three pounds of current

literature.

“Do you read mostly?” asked Aunt Mary.

“It’s best to be on the safe side,” said Clover vaguely.

Then they entered the tangle of docks and express wagons and obstacles

in general and Mitchell had great difficulty in finding where his

launch had been taken to meet them.

But at last they got Aunt Mary down a flight of very slippery steps and

into a boat whose everything was labeled “Lady Belle,” and Mitchell

said something and they cast loose and were off.

“Seems rather a small yacht,” said Aunt Mary, glancing cheerfully

about. “I ain’t surprised that you’d rather come in nights.”

“Bless your heart, Aunt Mary,” shrieked Jack, “this isn’t the yacht,

this is the way we get to her.”

“Oh,” said Aunt Mary blankly.

“That’s the yacht,” yelled Burnett, “that white one with the black

smoke coming out and the sail up.”

“What are they getting up steam for?” asked Clover. “The time to get up

steam is when you get down sails generally.”

“They aren’t getting up steam,” said Mitchell, “they’re getting up

dinner. It looks like a lot of smoke because of the shadow on the sail.

And, speaking of getting up dinner, reminds me that the topic before us

now is, how in thunder are we to get up Aunt Mary?”

“Put a rope around her and board her as if she was a cavalry horse,”

suggested Burnett.

“I scorn the suggestion,” said their host; “if the worst comes to the

worst I can give her a back up, but I trust that Aunt Mary will rise to

the heights of the sail and the situation all at once and not make me

do any vertebratical stunts so early in the day.”

They were running alongside of “Lady Belle” as he spoke, and the first

thing Aunt Mary knew she and her party were attached to the former by

some mysterious and not altogether solid connection.

“What do we do now?” she asked uneasily.

“I’ll show you,” laughed Burnett, and seizing two flapping ropes he

went skipping up a sort of stepladder and sprang upon the deck above.

Aunt Mary started to emulate his prowess and stood up at once. But the

next second she sat down extremely hard without knowing why she had

done so.

“Hold on, Miss Watkins,” Mitchell cried hastily; “just you hold on

until I give you something to hold on to, and when you’ve got something

to hold on to, please keep holding on to it, until I tell you that the

hour has come in which to let go again.”

“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Aunt Mary, “but I’m ready to do

anythin’ you say if you only—” and again she sprang up and again was

thrown down as hard as before.

“Look out,” cried Jack, springing to her side; and he got hold of his

valuable relative and held her fast while Mitchell grasped the ladder

and a sailor strove to keep the launch still.

“Now, Aunt Mary,” cried the nephew, “hang on to me and hang on to those

ropes and remember I’m right back of you—”

“My Lord alive,” cried Aunt Mary, turning her gaze upwards, “am I

expected to go alone all that way to the top?”

“It’ll pay you to keep on to the top,” screamed Clover; “you’ll have,

comparatively speaking, very little fun if you hang on to the ladder

all day—and you’ll get so wet too.”

“There’s more room at the top,” cried Mitchell, “there’s always room at

the top, Miss Watkins. Put yourself in the place of any young man

entering a profession and struggle bravely upwards, bearing ever in—”

“Oh, I never can,” said Aunt Mary, recoiling abruptly; “I never could

climb trees when I was little—I never had no grip in my legs—and I just

know I can’t. It’s too high. An’ it looks slippery. An’ I don’t want

to, anyhow.”

“What rot!” yelled Jack, “the very idea! Why, Aunt Mary, you know you

can skin up there just like a cat if you only make up your mind to it.

Here, Mitchell, give her a boost and I’ll plant her feet firmly.

Now—have you got hold of the ropes, Aunt Mary?”

“Oh, mercy—on—me!” wailed Aunt Mary, “the yacht is turnin’ a-round an’

the harder I pull the faster it turns.”

“Catch her from above, Burr,” Clover called excitedly; “hook her with

anything if you can’t reach her with your hand.”

“Oh, my cap!” shrieked poor Aunt Mary, and the cap went off and she

went on up and was landed safe above.

“How on the chart do you suppose we’ll ever unload her?” Jack asked,

wide-eyed, as he swung himself quickly after her.

“What man hath done man can do,” quoted Mitchell sententiously,

following his lead.

“But no man ever unloaded Aunt Mary,” Clover reminded him, as they

brought up the rear.

Then they were all on deck, a chair was brought for the honored guest,

and Mitchell introduced his sailing-master who had been drawn to gaze

upon the rather novel manner in which she had been brought aboard.

“I want Miss Watkins to have the sail of her life, Renfew,” said

Mitchell. “We aren’t coming back until night.”

“We’ll have sail enough sure, sir,” said Renfew, touching his cap, and

then he walked away and the work of starting off began. A tug had been

engaged to tow them out into the breeze and Jack thought it would be

nice to show Aunt Mary around while they were being meandered through

coal barges, etc. They went below and Aunt Mary saw everything with a

most flattering interest.

“I d’n know but what I’d enjoy a little yacht of my own,” she said to

Mitchell. “I think it’s so amusin’ the way everythin’ turns over into

suthin’ else. I suppose Joshua could learn to sail me—I wouldn’t want

to trust no new man, I know.”

“Why, of course,” said Jack, “and we could all come and visit you, Aunt

Mary.”

Aunt Mary smiled hospitably.

“I’d be glad to see you all any day,” she said cordially; “and I shall

have a hole in the bottom of the boat for people to go in and out of,

and a nice staircase down to it, so you needn’t mind the notion of how

you’ll get on and off.”

They all laughed and continued the tour below and Aunt Mary grew more

and more enthusiastic for quite a while. She liked the kitchen and she

liked the dining-room. She thought the arrangement for keeping the

table level most ingenious. Mitchell took her into the main cabin and

told her that that was hers for the day. On the dresser was a

photograph of the “Lady Belle” framed in silver, which the young host

presented to his guest as a souvenir of the “voyage.”

Aunt Mary’s pleasure was at its height. Oh, the pity of Fate which

makes the apex of everything so very limited as to standing room! Three

minutes after the presentation and acceptation of the photograph Aunt

Mary’s glance became suddenly vague, and then especially piercing.

“What makes this up and down feeling?” she asked Mitchell.

“What up and down feeling?” he asked, secure in the good conscience and

pure living of an oatmeal breakfast. “I don’t feel up and down.”

“I do,” said Aunt Mary abruptly; “I want to be somewhere else.”

“You want to be on deck,” said Burnett, suddenly emerging from

somewhere; “I know the symptoms. I always have ’em. Come on. And when

we get up there, I’ll collar Jack for urging those six last griddle

cakes on me this morning.”

“I ain’t sure I want to be on deck,” said Aunt Mary; “dear me—I feel as

if I wasn’t sure of anythin’.”

“What did I tell you?” said Burnett to Mitchell; “it’s blowing fresh

and neither she nor I ought to have come. You know me when it blows.”

“Shut up,” said Mitchell, hurrying Aunt Mary up the companion-way and

shoving her into one chair and her feet into another; “there, Miss

Watkins, you’re all right now, aren’t you?”

“What’s the matter?” said Jack, coming from somewhere aloft or astern.

“Heaven bless me, what ails you, Aunt Mary?”

“I don’t wonder I’m pale,” said Aunt Mary faintly, “oh—oh—”

“We must put our heads together,” said Burnett, taking a drink from a

flask that he took out of his pocket; “I must soon put my head on

something, and your aunt looks to me to feel the same way. Mitchell,

why did you let me forget that vow I made last time to never come

again?”

“Your vows to never do things again are about as stable as your present

hold on an upright position,” said Clover, laying a steadying hand upon

his friend’s waveringness. “Sit down, little boy, sit down.”

Burnett sat down, Mitchell smiled, Jack laughed, and Aunt Mary groaned.

The boat was rising and falling rapidly now, and as she ran further and

further out into the ever freshening wind she kept on rising and

falling yet more rapidly. The more motion there was the more Aunt Mary

seemed to sift down in her two chairs.

“We’d better put back,” said Jack; “this won’t do, you know. How do you

feel now, Aunt Mary?” he added, leaning over her.

Aunt Mary opened her eyes and looked at him but made no reply.

“Ask me how I feel, if you dare,” said Burnett, from where his chair

was drawn up not far away. “I couldn’t kill you just now, but I will

some day I promise you.”

He was very white and had a look about his mouth that showed that he

meant what he said.

Some bells rang somewhere.

“That’s dinner,” exclaimed Clover.

Aunt Mary gave a piercing cry.

“Oh, take me somewhere else,” she said, throwing her hands up to her

face; “somewhere where there’ll never be nothin’ to eat again. I—I

can’t bear to hear about eatin’.”

“I’m going to take her down into one of the cabins,” said Jack hastily,

“she belongs in bed.”

“No, turn back the carpet and lay me in the bath-tub,” almost sobbed

the poor victim. “I don’t feel like I could get flat enough anywhere

else.”

“She has the proper spirit,” said Burnett faintly, “only I don’t feel

as if I could get flat enough anywhere at all. What in the name of the

Great Pyramid ever possessed me to come?”

Mitchell rose quickly to his feet.

“You put your aunt to bed, Jack,” he said, “and I’ll put my yacht to

backing. This expedition is expeditiously heading on to what might be

termed a failure. I can see that, even if we’re only in a Sound.”

“When do you suppose we’ll get back?” the nephew asked anxiously.

“About four o’clock, if we don’t lose time by having to tack.”

“I didn’t quite catch all that,” said Aunt Mary, “but I knew suthin’

was loose all along. I felt it inside of me right off at first. And

ever since, too.”

Jack gathered her up in his arms and bore her tenderly away to the

beautiful main cabin.

“I wanted to live to change my will,” she said sadly, as he laid her

down, “but somehow I don’t seem to care for nothin’ no more.”

He kissed her hand.

“They say being seasick is awfully _good_ for people, Aunt Mary,” he

yelled contritely.

Aunt Mary opened her eyes.

“John Watkins, Jr., Denham,” she said, “if you say ‘food’ to me again

_ever_, I’ll never leave you a penny—so there!”

Jack went away and left her.

“Come on to dinner, Burnett,” Clover called hilariously, “there’s liver

with little bits of bacon—your favorite dish.”

Burnett snarled the weakest kind of a snarl.

“I thought I’d suffered enough for one year last month,” he murmured in

a voice too low to be heard, and then he knew himself to be alone on

deck.

Down in the little dining-saloon the dishes were hopping merrily back

and forth and an agreeable odor of agreeable viands filled the air.

Clover and Jack sat down opposite their host and they all three ate and

drank with a zest that knew no breaking waves nor sad effects.

“Here’s to our aunt,” said Clover gayly, as the first course went

around; “of course, we all love her for Jack’s sake, but at the same

time I offer two to odds that it is a pleasure to converse in under

tones occasionally. Who takes?”

“Aunt Mary being laid upon her bed,” said Mitchell, “we will next

proceed to lay the motion of our honorable friend upon the table. We

regret Aunt Mary’s ill-health while we drink to her good—quotation

marks under the latter word. Aunt Mary!—and may she arise and prosper

all the way down into the launch again.”

“I’m troubled about her, really,” said Jack soberly; “we ought to have

brought someone to look out for her.”

“The maid,” cried Mitchell, “the dainty, adorable maid! Here’s to

Janice and—” his speech was brought to a sudden end by his two guests

nearly disappearing under the table.

Jack started up.

“Ginger! Did you feel that?” he asked.

“That’s nothing,” said Mitchell, calmly replacing the water-carafe

which in the excitement of the moment he had clasped to his bosom;

“it’s the waves which are rising to the occasion—that’s all.” But Jack

had hurried out.

He found poor Aunt Mary writhing in an agony of misery. “Oh—oh—” she

cried, “I want to be still—I’m too much tipped—and all the wrong way! I

want to lay smooth—and I stand on my head—all the—”

“We’re going back,” said Jack, striving to soothe her; “lie still, Aunt

Mary, and we’ll soon get there. Do you want some camphor to smell?”

“I don’t feel up to smellin’,” wailed Aunt Mary, “I don’t feel up to

anythin’. Go ’way. Right off.”

Jack went on deck. He found Burnett stretched pale and green upon the

chairs their lady guest had vacated.

“If you speak to me again,” he said, in halting accents, “I’ll never

speak to you again. Get out.”

Jack went back to his place at dinner.

“How are they?” asked Clover.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, “but there’s a big storm coming up.

The sky’s all dark blue and it looks bad.”

“I don’t care,” said Mitchell, sawing into the game with vigor; “if we

go down we go down with Aunt Mary and if I were Uncle Mary I wouldn’t

feel happier and safer as to all concerned. The ship that bore Cæsar

and his fortune had nothing at all to bear compared to this which bears

Jack and his. Here’s to Jack and his fortune, and may we all survive

the dark blue sky.”

“I tell you it’s serious,” said Jack. As he spoke another ominous

heaving set the bottles tipping and nearly sent Clover backwards.

“And I’m serious,” exclaimed Mitchell. “I’m always serious only I never

can get any girl to believe it. Here’s to me, and may I grow more and

more serious each—”

A tremendous wave bore the yacht upright and then let her fall on her

forelegs again. Clover went over backwards and the dish of peas to

which he had just been helping himself followed after.

“You didn’t say ‘excuse me’ when you left the table,” said Mitchell,

whom the law of gravitation had suddenly raised to a pinnacle from

which he viewed his friends with mirthful scorn; “and if you’ve hurt

yourself it must be a judgment on you for leaving the table without

saying ‘excuse me.’ Here’s to Clover, who has a judgment and a dish of

peas served on him at the same time for leaving the table without

saying ‘excuse me.’”

The sailing-master appeared at the door, his cap in his hand.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said respectfully, “but I fear it’s

impossible to put back. We can’t turn without getting into the trough

of the sea.”

“All right, go ahead then,” said Mitchell; “go where we must go, and do

what you’ve got to do. My motto is _veni, vidi, vici_, which freely

translated means I can sleep asea when I can’t sleep ashore.”

“But Aunt Mary?” cried Jack blankly.

“She’s all right,” said Mitchell; “she’ll soon reach the cold burnt

toast stage and when she reaches the stage we’ll all welcome her into

any chorus. Here’s to choruses in general and one chorus girl in

particular. I haven’t met her yet, but I shall know her when I do, for

she will look at me. Up to now they’ve all looked elsewhere and at

other men. If my fortune was only in my face it might draw some

interest, but—”

“Lady Belle” careened violently and Clover went over backwards for the

second time with much in his wake.

“Oh, I say,” said Mitchell, rising in disgust, “if you want everything

on the table at once why take it. Only I’m going on deck. After you’ve

bathed in the gravy you can have it. Ditto the other liquids. Jack and

I are going up to dance a hornpipe and sing for Burnett. He looked

rather ennuyéd to me when we came down.”

Along toward eight o’clock that night “Lady Belle” anchored somewhere

in the Sound and tugged vigorously at her cables all night.

With the dawn she headed back towards New York.

“As a success my entertainment has been a failure,” said Mitchell to

Jack as they walked up and down the deck after breakfast; “but into

each life some rain must fall, and I offer myself as a sacrificial

background to Aunt Mary’s glowing, living pictures of New York.”

“I wish you hadn’t, though,” said Jack; “she’ll never want a yacht of

her own now. And how under Scorpion are we ever going to land her?”

“In a sheet, my able-bodied young friend, in a sheet,” said Mitchell

clapping him on the back. “Don’t you know the ‘Weigh the Baby’ game? It

may double her up a bit, but the redoubtable Janice will straighten her

out again. Here’s to the sheet, be it a wet sheet, a main sheet, or a

sheet with your Aunt Mary tied up in it.”

Mitchell was as good as his word and they landed Aunt Mary in a sheet.

The very harbor-tugs stopped puffing and stood open-mouthed to stare at

the performance, but it was an unalloyed success, and Aunt Mary was

gotten onto dry land at last.

“I don’t want to do nothin’ for a day or two,” she said, as they drove

to the house.

Janice had the bed open, and a hot-water bottle down where Aunt Mary’s

feet might be expected, and all sorts of comfort ready to hand.

“I’m so glad to see you safe back,” she said, almost weeping.

“I don’t believe it’s broke,” said Aunt Mary, “but you might look and

see. Oh, Granite—I—” she stopped and looked an unutterable meaning.

“It stormed, didn’t it?” said the maid.

“Stormed!” said Aunt Mary. “I guess it did storm. I guess it

hurricaned. I know it did. I’m sure of it.”

“But you’re safe now,” said the girl, tucking her up as snugly as if

she had been an infant in arms.

“Yes, I’m safe now,” said Aunt Mary, “but—” she looked very

earnest—“but, oh, my Granite, how I did need that white fuzzy stuff to

drink this morning. I never wanted nothin’ so bad in all my life

afore.”

Janice stood by the bed, her face full of regret that Aunt Mary had

known any aching void.

Aunt Mary grew yet more earnest.

“Granite,” she said, “you mind what I tell you. That ought to be

advertised. I sh’d think you could patent it. Folks ought to know about

it.”

Then she laid herself out in bed. “My heavens alive!” she sighed

sweetly, “there’s nothin’ like home. Not anywhere—not nowhere!”

Chapter Sixteen

A Reposeful Interval

The next date upon the little gold and ivory memorandum card which hung

beside Aunt Mary’s watch was that set for Burnett’s picnic, but its

dawning found both host and guest too much attached to their beds to

desire any fêtes champêtre just then.

Burnett was in that very weak state which follows in the immediate wake

of only too many yachts,—and Aunt Mary was sleeping one of her long

drawn out and utterly restorative sleeps.

Jack went in and looked at her.

“It did storm awfully,” he said to Janice, who was sitting by the

window. The maid just smiled, nodded, and laid her finger on her lip.

She never encouraged conversation when her charge was reposing.

Jack went softly out and turned his steps toward the room of the other

wreck.

“Well, how are stocks to-day?” he asked cheerfully on entering.

Burnett was stretched out pillowless and looked black under his hollow

eyes. But he appeared to be on the road to recovery.

“Jack,” he said seriously, “what in thunder makes me always so ready to

go on the water? I should think after a while I’d learn a thing or

two.”

Jack leaned his elbows on the high carved footboard and returned his

friend’s look with one of equal seriousness.

“What makes all of us do lots of things?” he asked. “Why don’t we all

learn?”

Burnett sighed.

“That’s a fact; why don’t we?” he said weakly. And then he shut his

eyes again and turned his back to his caller.

Jack went down to lunch. Clover and Mitchell were playing cards in the

library.

“Well, how is the hospital?” Clover asked, looking up while he shuffled

the pack.

“Never mind about Burnett,” said Mitchell, “but do relieve my mind

about Aunt Mary. Is the one sheet still taking effect, or has she begun

to rally on a diet of two?”

“She’s asleep,” said the nephew.

“God bless her slumber,” declared Clover piously. “I very much approve

of Aunt Mary asleep. When our dearly beloved aunt sleeps we know we’ve

got her and we don’t have to yell. Shall I deal for three?”

“They are bringing up lunch,” said the latest arrival,—“no time to

begin a hand. Better stack guns for the present.”

“So say I,” said Mitchell, “with me everything goes down when lunch

comes up. It’s quite the reverse with Burnett, isn’t it?” He laughed

brutally at his own wit.

“To think how enthusiastic Burr was,” said Clover, evening the cards

preparatory to slipping them into their holder on the side of the

table. “He’s always so enthusiastic and he’s always so sick. In his

place I should feel that, if a buoyant nature is a virtue, I didn’t get

much reward.”

The gong sounded just then, and they all went down to lunch, not at all

saddened by the sight of their comrade’s empty chair.

“Now, what are we going to do next?” Clover demanded as they finished

the bouillon.

“Have a meat course, I suppose,” said Mitchell.

“I don’t mean that; I mean, what are we going to do next with Aunt

Mary?”

“She hasn’t but two days more,” said Jack meditatively. “Of course—even

if she was all chipper—this storm has knocked any picnic endways.”

“I am not an ardent upholder of picnics, anyhow,” said Mitchell. “They

require a constant sitting down on the ground and getting up from the

ground to which I find our respected aunt very far from being equal.

Burnett mentioned that we should go to the scene on a coach. That also

did not meet my approval. Going anywhere on a coach requires a constant

getting up on the coach and getting down from the coach to which I also

consider the lady unequal. The events of yesterday have left a deep

impression on my mind. I—”

“Go on and carve,” interrupted Clover, “or else shove me the platter.

I’m hungry.”

“So’m I,” said a voice at the door. A weak voice—but one that showed

decision in its tone.