“I’ll show you to your room now, Jacqueline.”
“I can find it myself,” said Jacqueline stiffly. “I was here in your house before. Didn’t that Judge tell you about the beads—my own beads? But I’d like to have you show me, just the same, if it isn’t too much trouble,” she conceded, more graciously.
Side by side they went up the stairway just as Aunt Eunice and Caroline had gone, weeks before. The door was opened into the bedroom that Jacqueline remembered. Aunt Eunice fumbled with the electric button, and the light flooded the pale paper with its leafy frieze, the French gray furniture, the oyster white rug—and in the middle of the rug was the rocking chair on its face, with a pillow laid upon its rockers, and a note pinned to the pillow. Jacqueline sprang and seized the note.
“It’s for you, Aunt Eunice,” she cried, “and I bet anything it’s from Carol. Of course she wouldn’t go away without a word. Oh, read it, do!”
Aunt Eunice read the little letter that was splashed with Caroline’s tears.
“Oh, dear!” quavered Aunt Eunice, beneath her breath. “The poor little lamb! Oh, dear!”
For one second Aunt Eunice and Jacqueline looked at each other with eyes of complete understanding. Then Jacqueline threw her arms about Aunt Eunice, and burst out crying, as she had not once cried for her own distress.
“Oh, oh!” she wailed. “She’ll hate it at the farm—I know she will. The piano is funny and old and out of tune—and if you don’t sit on those boys, they get fresh. And Carol won’t sit on ’em. She’s a ’fraid cat. She wouldn’t have changed round with me in the first place, if I hadn’t made her.”
“Don’t, don’t, my dear!” Aunt Eunice tried to soothe in a broken voice.
“But she never had a party,” Jacqueline wept on, “not till you gave her one. That’s why we didn’t change back again before. We were going to—I was so sick of it at the farm—but she had to have her party—she just cried because she wanted it so—she said it was heaven here—and the nasty old music lessons—she liked ’em, can you beat it? I wanted to go see her to-morrow—she wouldn’t keep these clothes—but I want her to have some of mine—and a winter coat—I’ll make her take ’em—hers are funny and old and mended—and I’ve worn ’em out dreadfully—and she loves pretty clothes—and she won’t have any more now ever—nor dentists nor music—and she was eating out of a shoe box on the train—and it wasn’t her fault at all—I put her up to it, there on the train—and now—she’s the one that has—to have—a horrid time—and c-cows!”