A soft little murmur went the rounds. "We had strawberries for dinner last night," said Peggy, "the best I've tasted this year."
"And we had strawberry short-cake." Priscilla smacked her lips reminiscently.
"And I had some strawberry ice cream at Birds'," put in Ruth. "It was so warm along about nine o'clock, you know, and Nelson and I went down. My, but it was good!"
Amy listened unmoved. "What I've been thinking about," she explained, "is strawberries in the patch, sticking their heads out from under the leaves, as if they were begging to be picked, warm from the sun, and sweet, and just spilling over with juice."
The girls sat attentive. Something in Amy's manner indicated that there was a background of reality for this flight of fancy.
"I've got a sort of relation living about ten miles out of town," Amy continued. "Aunt Phoebe Cummings, only that isn't her name. Five years ago she married a man named Frost."
"How interesting to get a new uncle at your age," interjected Ruth.
"I don't regard him as much of an addition to the family," retorted Amy drily. "When I talk about him, I call him, 'Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back.' But to his face, he's Mr. Frost. You see, Aunt Phoebe isn't exactly an aunt. I believe she's a second cousin of my grandfather's first wife, but she's nicer than lots of real aunts."
"I do think you have the nicest relations, Amy Lassell," interposed Peggy. "Now Aunt Abigail, at Doolittle cottage, was a perfect dear."