Jacqueline went to Grandma’s side and took the veined old hands tight in both hers.’
“I’m your Jackie,” she said painfully. “Oh, Grandma, I sure will miss you! I’ll run in to-morrow, and I’m coming back to visit next summer, if Aunt Martha’ll let me.”
Grandma smiled, the saddest sort of smile.
“To-morrow’s another day, child—and summer’s a long ways off. There, now, just you kiss me and run along to your own folks.”
Jacqueline bent and kissed the withered old cheek.
“Don’t ye cut up no more crazy didoes,” Grandma whispered with a queer little chuckle that might as well have been a sob.
“I won’t,” said Jacqueline, stifled.
She went out of the room very quickly. If she had stopped or looked back, she realized that she might have begun to cry. Oh, fuzzy caterpillars, what was the use of talking grandly to one’s self about wheelchairs for Grandma and china dishes? Some things you couldn’t make up for. Some things you couldn’t set right.
Aunt Martha didn’t aim to have prolonged leave-takings. She was out on the doorstep, with Freddie, beshawled, in her arms, and the children standing round her with perplexed faces, all of them; even Ralph. In the roadster sat Judge Holden, and Colonel Jimmie Knowlton stood by the running board with his cap in his hand, talking with Aunt Martha.
Jacqueline threw herself upon Uncle Jimmie and kissed him. She wanted to get through with everything very quickly, and drive away. She kissed Nellie. She kissed Freddie. She dabbed at Aunt Martha’s cheek.