“Where d’ye expect to get the money?” Miss Crevey shot the words from her thin lips.
“I’m eleven in September,” Jacqueline said truthfully. “And I have a pretend-aunt that always gives me money on my birthday, and she will this time.”
“Well, when you get the money,” Miss Crevey spoke like one conferring a great favor, “I’ll let you have the cup and saucer.”
“Will you keep them for me till I get the money?” asked Jacqueline desperately.
“Why of course I will,” cried Miss Crevey heartily, “unless somebody comes along that’ll pay me spot cash for them.”
The tears of disappointment rose to Jacqueline’s eyes. She blinked them rapidly away. She must not let this hateful woman see her cry. But she was so sorry for Grandma—and so sorry for herself! She remembered how hopefully she had dressed for the little trip to Longmeadow, only an hour ago—how she had made herself so extra neat, with a hair ribbon, too—the look of the upper drawer, as she tossed its contents over—handkerchiefs, stockings, underwear—a Japanese lacquer box.
Jacqueline caught her breath.
“Look here!” she spoke, as one inspired. “If I brought you something worth more than five dollars and let you keep it till September when I shall have some money—then would you let me have the cup and saucer and take them home—right now?”
Miss Crevey pursed her lips.
“What d’ye mean by something?” she asked stabbingly.