“Oh!” cried Caroline, in dismay. “And I’ve got to say good-by to Eleanor Trowbridge!”
“There’s no time now, dear,” warned Cousin Penelope.
“But I must,” cried Caroline desperately. “I must—show her Mildred—in her sailor suit.”
She flew up the stairs to her room. She snatched up the doll and fairly flew down again. She rushed out of the house and tore across the garden. To her joy she saw Eleanor Trowbridge there at the other side of the hedge and the rose tangle, in the swing that hung from a branch of the big elm.
“Cooey!” cried Caroline.
Eleanor came hurrying on her sturdy legs, and when Eleanor stood before her, a very solid person, Caroline lost her courage. She couldn’t say right out plump: “Let me into your house to use your telephone, quick!” as she had meant to say. She stammered and hesitated and talked about the journey. She was leading the subject round to the telephone. Presently she would get there! Oh, how her heart was beating, and Eleanor, the solid and stolid, didn’t give her a bit of help.
“You can play in our summer house while I’m gone,” said Caroline, and she meant to add, “if you’ll let me use your telephone now,” but she never said the words, for just then Cousin Penelope came tripping across the garden.
“Last call for the Boston train!” Cousin Penelope cried gayly. “Hurry, Jacqueline! We’ve got to stop in the village for gas and oil, and we’re half an hour behind schedule already.”
So Caroline, quite helpless, was hurried away to the car, beneath the envious eyes of Eleanor Trowbridge. Already the luggage was strapped on the carrier, and Aunt Eunice was cozily seated in the car. Beside her were the little vanity bag, the straw hat, with its flame-colored band, and the little leaf brown cape coat that Caroline should wear upon the journey.
“Sallie fetched down your things,” smiled Aunt Eunice. “Jump in, my dear, and off we go!”