“He could not help it, my dear. But I have not lived next door to you in vain, my child, these pleasant years, and your mother trusts my judgment. I have the list.”
“Oh, you have planned it with her, then,” said Shirley. “Things have been rather mixed up today, but she said to ask you about everything. I’m almost packed, but I surely will be glad to have your help.”
Miss Dudley was Shirley’s great aunt, her mother’s aunt. She lived in an apartment of her own near the Harcourt home and managed to hold the position of general adviser to her niece without any of the disagreeable features which an interfering nature might have introduced. But Miss Dudley had her own pursuits and a wide circle of friends. No one knew her age, but if the Harcourts were in the early forties, Miss Dudley, well preserved, still attractive, with her only lightly wrinkled brow, her wide-awake brown eyes and air of independence, must be in the sixties. She and Shirley had always been good friends. Her tasteful rooms, her books, her curios, which the child Shirley was trained not to touch without permission, had always been a source of pleasure to the professor’s daughter. Many a time some one of Miss Dudley’s friends would come in to call and note the pretty, fair-haired child with her dark eyes, reading some book, perhaps, and curled up in a corner of Miss Dudley’s davenport.
The Lyttons were distant cousins, related upon the Harcourt side. It was with them that Shirley expected to make the western trip. As they, too, had many errands and much to do before the start, Dick deposited Miss Dudley and Shirley in the center of town at their first shopping point and made arrangements to meet them at a later hour, to take them home again. Shirley quite forgot to be lonesome in the exigencies of the moment, the importance of not forgetting any detail and the selection of the last purchases.
Meanwhile, upon the Pullman, Dr. Harcourt was saying to a rather sober wife, “I need a more cheerful companion, Eleanor.” Somewhat whimsically he looked into the now smiling eyes, very like Shirley’s. “I, too, feel as if the plunge had taken my breath a little, but if we let ourselves get homesick or worried at the start, what will become of us?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I felt like a girl again, planning my trousseau and honeymoon,—but saying goodbye to Shirley has made me think of my responsibilities, I suppose.”
“Stop it, then, my dear. This is our second honeymoon. Think of the fun that we are going to have. Remember what we decided. It is true that things calamitous might happen, but how foolish to guide one’s life by them.”
“I remember, learned professor,” said Mrs. Harcourt, responding to the pressure of the hand that reached down to take hers. “We decided that it is entirely wise to accomplish something in this old world, not held back by our fears, and that this year will be an opportunity to Shirley as well as to ourselves. We’ve made fine plans for her and as usual we pray ‘deliver us from evil.’ Really, Will, I’m a happy woman and I trust in you and Providence just as much as ever. You don’t blame me that I find leaving Shirley behind a little wrench, do you?”
“Not a bit of it. But I think that it will do you both good. What did I do with that Baedeker? The last report of our archæalogical expedition is in it. I put it between the pages and I hope that I’ve not left it at home!”
“I have it in my bag, Will. I’ll find it for you in a jiffy.”