Dolly picked up the telegram, which had fluttered to the floor.
“‘Will arrive at twelve-thirty,’” she read; “‘meet me at the station.’”
“Why, it’s signed ‘P. Dana,’” said Dick. “How can P. Dana be Aunt Nine? How can it, Aunt Abbie?” He squeezed into the big chair beside Miss Abbie, and patted her cheek to attract her attention. “How can it? How does P. stand for Nine? Or do you mean nine aunts are coming? Oh, Doll, wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Tell me,” urged Dolly, squeezing herself into Aunt Rachel’s lap, “tell me first, auntie, ’fore Dick knows. Quick, tell me! Who’s Aunt Nine? What does it mean?”
“Oh, Dolly, for mercy’s sake don’t bother me now! She’s Aunt Penninah, your great-aunt, of course. We always call her Aunt Nine. And she’s the most particular, fussy, pernicketty old lady in the world!”
“Oh, she’s dreadful!” sighed Aunt Abbie. “We always spend weeks getting ready for her. She never came so unexpectedly before.”
“But the house is all in order,” suggested Dolly, anxious to be comforting.
“Yes, for the Reading Circle. But not for Aunt Penninah. She looks into every cupboard and storeroom, and, besides, we’ve nothing for dinner.”
“I’ll go get something,” offered Dick. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know!” groaned Miss Rachel. “Go and send Hannah here. And it’s wash-day, too! And the Reading Club! Oh, what can we do?”