“If only you had two months’ vacation, instead of two weeks,” mourned Peggy.
“I’m lucky to get two weeks, when I’ve been in your uncle’s office such a little while. And, anyway, Peggy, I couldn’t leave home for long as things are, even if my vacation lasted all summer.”
And it really was Elaine Marshall, speaking in that cheery, matter-of-fact tone, scorning the luxury of self-pity, conquering the temptation to look on herself as an object of sympathy. Peggy regarded her with affectionate admiration, quite unaware how important a factor she herself had been in bringing about a transformation almost beyond belief.
After twenty-four hours of reflection Friendly Terrace was practically a unit on the question. The fathers saw no reason why the girls should not go, and the mothers found a variety of reasons why they should. The question of a chaperon had been a temporary stumbling-block, for none of the mothers especially concerned had felt that she could be spared from home. But before the difficulty had begun to seem serious, Amy had exclaimed: “I believe Aunt Abigail would jump at the chance.”
“Aunt Abigail!” Priscilla repeated, with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t remember ever hearing you speak of her.”
“She’s father’s aunt, you know, but I always call her Aunt Abigail.”
There was a pause. “Then she must be a good deal like a grandmother,” Ruth hinted delicately.
“Why, yes. Aunt Abigail is seventy-five or six, I don’t remember which.”
Priscilla and Ruth looked at Peggy, their manner implying that the crisis demanded the exercise of her undeniable tact. Peggy made a brave effort to be equal to the emergency.
“Don’t you think, Amy, dear,” she hazarded, “that it would be a little trying to the nerves of an old lady to chaperon a lot of noisy girls–”