"Isn't it splendid of Aunt Meg?" said Bertha diplomatically. "Of course you'll go, Gracie."
"Oh, I don't know," said Grace in bewilderment. "Are you sure you don't want to go, Bertha?"
"Indeed, I do want to go, dreadfully," said Bertha frankly. "But as I've told you, it is impossible. But if I am disappointed, Aunt Meg musn't be. You must go, Grace, and that is all there is about it."
In the end, Grace did go, a little puzzled and doubtful still, but thankful beyond words to escape the drudgery of the counter and the noise and heat of the city. Bertha went home, feeling a little bit blue in secret, it cannot be denied, but also feeling quite sure that if she had to do it all over again, she would do just the same.
The summer slipped quickly by, and finally two letters came to Bertha, one from Aunt Meg and one from Grace.
"I've had a lovely time," wrote the latter, "and, oh, Bertie, what do you think? I am to stay here always. Oh, of course I am going back to school next month, but this is to be my home after this. Aunt Meg—she makes me call her that—says I must stay with her for good."
In Aunt Meg's letter was this paragraph:
Grace is writing to you, and will have told you that I intend to keep her here. You know I have always wanted a daughter of my own, but my greedy brothers and sisters would never give me one of theirs. So I intend to adopt Grace. She is the sweetest girl in the world, and I am very grateful to you for sending her here. You will not know her when you see her. She has grown plump and rosy.
Bertha folded her letters up with a smile. "I have a vague, delightful feeling that I am the good angel in a storybook," she said.