“I’ll write to town,” she cried, in her high, clear tones. “What brand do you like best?”
“Mitchell’s,” said Aunt Mary. “But you can’t get those because he made ’em himself an’ sealed ’em with a lick. Oh!” she sighed, with the accent of a starving Sybarite, “I do wish I could see him do it again! Do you know,” she added suddenly, “he wrote me a letter and he’s goin’ to come here.”
“When?” asked Janice.
“After a while. But you must take off your things. That’s your room in there,” pointing toward a half-open door at the side. “I wanted you as close as I could get you. My, but I’ve wanted you! I can’t tell you how much. But a good deal—a lot—awfully.”
Janice went into the room that was to be hers, and hung up her hat and cloak.
When she returned Aunt Mary was looking a hundred per cent, improved already.
“Can you hum ‘Hiawatha’?” she asked immediately. “Granite, I must have suthin’ to amuse me an’ make me feel good. Can you hum ‘Hiawatha’ an’ can you do that kind of ‘sh—sh—sh—’that everybody does all together at the end, you know?”
Janice smiled pleasantly, and placing herself in the closest possible proximity with the ear trumpet, at once rendered the desired morceau in a style which would have done credit to a soloist in a café chantant.
Aunt Mary’s lips wreathed in seraphic bliss.
“My!” she said. “I feel just as if I was back eatin’ crabs’ legs and tails again. No one’ll ever know how I’ve missed city life this winter but—well, you saw Lucinda!”