Jacqueline paused at last for breath, and fixed her eyes on the trembling Caroline.
“Can you remember all that?” she asked sternly.
“I—I guess so,” Caroline answered dubiously.
“You’ll be all right,” Jacqueline encouraged. “Aunt Edie hardly ever wrote letters to Great-aunt Eunice, so she doesn’t really know much about us. Now see if I remember what I’ve got to know. I’m you now—Caroline Tait. My father was Henry Tait, and he was born in Longmeadow, and he came to Chicago years ago and was on a newspaper when he died. And he met my mother out there, and her name was Frances Meade, and she was a music teacher, and none of the Longmeadow folks ever saw her. And I’ve been living with her cousin, Delia Meade, and I’m going to my father’s half-sister, and her name is Martha Conway. Is that all right?”
“Yes,” Caroline nodded, “but oh! I’ve just thought. Won’t we have to write letters back to your Aunt Edith and my Cousin Delia—and they’ll see that the handwriting isn’t ours?”
For as much as half a second, Jacqueline hesitated. Then she rose to the occasion.
“I’ve got two post-cards shut up in my Robin Hood book. Quick! Write to your Cousin Delia on this one that you’ve got safe to Baring Junction, and your half-aunt met you and is very nice.”
“But I don’t know if she is!” protested truthful Caroline.
“You’ve got to take chances sometimes,” Jacqueline silenced her. “Hurry up and write, and I’ll write one, too, to my Aunt Edie.”
Hastily and in pencil the post-cards were written. From a recess in the vanity bag Jacqueline dug out two stamps, the worse for wear but still stickable. These she fixed upon the cards.