Paul and Pauline were very fond of this aunt, and found it one of the greatest attractions of their camp-life that she usually spent her summers with them.
“And the best of it is, Molly, that Auntie David loves us just as well as we love her,” chatted Pauline, the last morning of her stay at Santa Luzia.
The two girls were pacing arm-in-arm up and down the veranda, waiting for Captain Bradstreet to drive around with the buckboard in which he was to take his family to the canyon.
“I think your Auntie David is perfectly lovely, Polly.”
“Do you, really? Oh, I’m so glad! She likes you too, Molly. She hopes you’ll come out often to the camp.”
“Does she? The dear, how nice of her!”
“Yes; she says you’re a reliable girl, Molly. She never said as much of her own niece! and,—ahem!—she believes you have a good influence over me!”
Pauline drawled out the last sentence with a droll pucker of the lips which threw Molly into spasms of laughter.
“The blessed woman! She didn’t say that, Pauline? You don’t mean to tell me that your Auntie David said that!”
“Yes, those very words, Molly, to papa. And papa, the old darling, whipped out his pocket-handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and muttered, ‘I’ve noticed that myself.’”