“I’m sure I shouldn’t relish an Esquimau,” said Aunt Eunice.
“Then you shall go south, Mildred,” said Caroline. “After all, most of your clothes are of silk and muslin, and better for a warm climate. You can go to the Isles of Greece where burning Sappho loved and sang.”
Aunt Eunice looked up from the tiny sleeve, and lifted her brows, never so slightly.
“Where did you ever hear of Sappho, child?”
“It was in my reader at school,” Caroline explained, “and long before that, when I was little, I had a gray kitten and her name was Sappho. Were you ever in the Isles of Greece, Aunt Eunice?”
“No, dear.”
“Oh!” said Caroline, disappointed. “You’ve been most everywhere else. Well, let’s send Mildred to Italy, where the citrons are, and bandits, and beggars, and Pompeii. Oh, Aunt Eunice, won’t you tell Mildred and me how you went to Pompeii on your wedding journey?”
The little smile brightened on Aunt Eunice’s soft old face.
“Why, Jacqueline, dear, you must be sick of the story of my wedding journey. In the fortnight you’ve been here, you’ve heard it thirteen times at least.”
“Fourteen times would be one for every day in the week,” Caroline suggested, with a twinkle in her brown eyes that were usually so grave. “Oh, do tell me again, Aunt Eunice! I love to hear about strange, beautiful places. When I shut my eyes at night I see them just as you tell them, and I go to sleep and dream I am there.”