Priscilla showed signs of impatience. "What has all this to do with strawberries?"
"Well, I'm coming to that. My Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back owns a little farm, and they've got strawberries to burn. And almost every year Aunt Phoebe says she wishes I'd come out when the strawberries are ripe and bring some of my friends."
"Amy Lassell!" exclaimed Priscilla reproachfully. "Do you mean that Mrs. Philander has been begging you to do this for the last five years, and that this is the first we've heard of it?"
"Well, as a rule she mentions it along about August, or October, and I forget it by June. But she came in town to shop the other day and took dinner with us, and when she left, she broached the subject again. She said the strawberries would be at their best by the middle of next week and she'd love to meet you all. What do you think of a trip to the country along about Wednesday?"
There were certain subjects regarding which, in spite of their devoted friendship, the Friendly Terrace quartette could develop considerable diversity of opinion. But on this occasion, their unanimity would have gratified the hospitable instincts of Amy's Aunt Phoebe. Strawberries boxed and displayed in show windows, or even transformed into such delicacies as short cake and ice cream, seemed prosaic all at once. What they wanted was to be turned loose in a strawberry patch, to stain their fingers plucking the strawberries from the vines. Before leaving the porch the girls watched Amy pen a note to her relative, accepting her oft-repeated invitation in behalf of herself and friends, and suggesting the following Wednesday as a desirable time for their visit.
A rather cloudy Tuesday awakened anxious apprehensions in the minds of the four girls, apprehensions dissipated, however, by the cloudless dawn of Wednesday. The height of the strawberry season is the most charming time of the year. The four ate an early luncheon at Peggy's home, and then took the trolley for the outskirts of the city. Once outside the city, the trolley car bowled along at an exhilarating pace, and in spite of the prospects ahead, the girls were almost sorry when the ten-miles were up, and the breezy ride was ended.
Aunt Phoebe was a little old lady whose black skirt was quaintly full and showed signs of wear, partially concealed by a white ruffled apron of unusual size. She greeted them as affectionately as if they had all been nieces by adoption, and conducted them indoors to take off their hats. The living room through which they passed was large and pleasantly and immaculately neat, the unpainted floor having been scrubbed to a milky whiteness.
The tapping of the girls' heels on the boards emphasized their bareness. "Got your rugs up for the summer, I see," remarked Amy casually. The comment was natural enough under the circumstances, but unluckily it opened the door of the closet which contained the Frosts' family skeleton. Aunt Phoebe reddened as if Amy's innocent remark had been a slap in the face. "My sitting room carpet's worn out," she said. "It was worn out when I came here. I patched it and I pieced it and I made it last a good three years after anybody else would have put it in the rags, and now he says there's no sense buying a new one."