“Honest, I do,” Jacqueline repeated earnestly. “I shouldn’t have taken it, just for stepping up to the store to help you out, but I’ll say I needed the money something awful.”
“I’ll say you must have!” chuckled Sallie.
“I’m keeping the twenty-five cents,” Jacqueline went on. “My Aunt Edie says she’s going to frame it, ’cause it’s the first money I ever earned, and Uncle Jimmie says probably it’ll be the last. But the dime’s in this envelope for you—and here’s an envelope for Hannah—and I was ever so much obliged for the milk.”
She fairly mumbled the last words, as she put the two creamy envelopes, marked Sallie and Hannah, on the table, and then she fled. In each envelope there was a dollar bill, besides the dime in Sallie’s envelope. Jacqueline had found two dollars in the purse in her vanity bag. All that summer Caroline must have scrupulously left the money untouched.
Breakfast at The Chimnies that morning was a rather hectic meal. Cousin Penelope was very silent. Once her eyes traveled from Jacqueline to the picture of Great-aunt Joanna that hung on the wall behind her. Great-aunt Joanna was the austere lady in the cap, you will remember, that Cousin Penelope had said Caroline looked like, when she believed that Caroline was Jacqueline. Now when Cousin Penelope looked at Great-aunt Joanna she positively choked over her soft roll, and had to leave the table.
Aunt Eunice saw that every one had plenty of coffee and waffles and scrambled eggs and crisp bacon. But she scarcely ate at all herself. As for Aunt Edie, she was worried for fear she had mislaid her trunk-key, and for fear that Jacqueline had hopelessly upset everybody, and she was more fluttery and helpless than ever. But Uncle Jimmie was calm and good-humored. He had said his say the night before. Now with him by-gones were by-gones, and he was friends all round, even with his troublesome niece-by-marriage.
When the good-bys at last were hurriedly and briefly said, Jacqueline hopped down the steps of the porch, holding to Uncle Jimmie’s hand, and scrambled up in front beside the driver’s seat. Aunt Edie was established in the tonneau, with rugs and cushions. She meant to sleep clear to New Haven, she said. Uncle Jimmie slipped his long legs under the steering wheel beside Jacqueline and as he put the car in gear, grinned at her, in his old comradely fashion.
It was a radiant little face, under the brown and orange hat, that Jacqueline showed to Aunt Eunice, as she waved farewell to The Chimnies and to Longmeadow, and it was with a little half-smile that Aunt Eunice, on the broad porch, turned to Cousin Penelope.
“I’m glad she’s gone off happy,” said Aunt Eunice. “She’s a bright little thing, and you must admit it was plucky of her to stick it out at the farm, and let the other child have a happy summer here. Fine of her, too, with every one condemning, to take the whole blame on herself. That was so like her father!”
“I don’t see it,” Cousin Penelope spoke in a hard voice. “She’s not one bit a Gildersleeve. She’s a bold, forward, underbred child—Delane, every inch of her.”