“I believe I will!” said Miss True-man, with conviction.
“Just pack up a bag for your aunt, Carrie, while I get a cab,” said Mr. Bean from the doorway. “We're going up to the old place—I'm thinking of buying it. I expect we'll be back tomorrow.”
“Your cousin appears to be a person of decision,” Mrs. Ranger suggested to the still dazed Elise, as the cab rolled away.
“I don't understand Aunt Ju-ju at all,” Carolyn interpolated crossly. She had not been in the habit of packing her aunt's bag. “She usually makes such a fuss about starting to go anywhere—days ahead, in fact. And now at fifteen minutes' notice! And her best gown!”
“It makes a difference, having a man to run it,” said the novelist sagely.
When two days had passed and their aunt had not yet appeared, her nieces were not unnecessarily alarmed, for her attachment to her old home was great, and it required no unusual degree of imagination to picture her delighted lingering over the old things, her purposely prolonged transaction of business details. But four days of unexplained absence had its effect upon their own little ménage; and when a week's visit had been accomplished and their beseeching letters had elicited only vague postal cards explaining nothing, but suggesting their presence at the farm, they became convinced of the necessity for action on their part, and went, more or less in the presumable spirit of the mountain in search of the fractious Prophet.
Tired and cross after four hours' travel on an incredibly hot 1st of April, they walked sternly up the board walk that led to the old-style porch, to be greeted by their cousin, who sat in snowy shirtsleeves, tilted back in his chair against the house, smoking his fat, dark cigar.
“Welcome home, girls—glad to see you!” he called cheerily. “Here they are, Jule! Now don't be afraid, but come right out and see them!”
“Why, bless your heart, Lorando, I'm not afraid,” a familiar voice answered; and Aunt Julia appeared before them, cool in blue checked gingham, with an enveloping white apron and familiarly floury hands.
“I'm just beating up some biscuit for tea,” she explained, “but I guess you can shake hands with me, girls “; and as she extended both arms hospitably they saw upon her floured left hand an unmistakable shining gold band.