“I was afraid you would get stuck in the mud on that wheel,” she suggested, smiling most hospitably to Trixy. “We’ve had such a lot of rain.”
“Aunty, it isn’t that,” almost cried Gloria, forgetting everything but the history of Aunt Lottie’s money. “But I’ve been out to Echoes! And it’s a gold mine!”
“What do you mean, Gloria! Come inside!”
Then she tried to tell her, while Martha fetched dry things. Her Aunt Hattie would not let Gloria pause long enough in the fairy story to put on her own shoes, although she had insisted upon changing the other garments.
The little woman’s face was like a newly trimmed lamp, with a fresh wick, shining chimney and a pretty shade. It shone!
“And you know, Mrs. Towers,” murmured the complacent Trixy, “it was my friend Sherry Graves, who planned all that!”
“Sherry Graves! Of course, I remember! Gloria, I’m a stupid woman. Where’s that telegram, Martha?”
It was produced by Martha, the yellow telegraph sheet with its transcribed cable message. Gloria read aloud:
“Arrive New York Sunday
with friend Sherwood Graves.”